


Breakfast at Tom Riddle's

by limeta



Series: Warren World [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Hermione Granger, Child Soldiers, Consent Issues, Corruption, Dark Past, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hermione Granger Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Power Imbalance, Prisoner Voldemort, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:27:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23016988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limeta/pseuds/limeta
Summary: In 1998, Lord Voldemort's magic gets bound and he is forced to live as a prisoner to be used for his magical expertise. Political intrigue afoot, amidst this entire mess Hermione Granger is asked to be his guard. She accepts, for her own ulterior motives.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Warren World [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685218
Comments: 27
Kudos: 76





	1. When the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione, Harry, and Ron get sloshed.

Hermione Granger was eighteen years old. She thought that she had her life handled, but this was very untrue because no eighteen-year-old had anything handled. This wasn’t a fantasy book where she emerged as a heroine post war and just lived happily ever after with her two boy heroes. No, no. This was a different reality. One wherein Hermione Granger and Harry Potter were sitting on a couch in Grimmauld Place and drinking.

Also, to add salt to injury, this was a reality where Hermione Jean Granger was far too young to be a guard of Tom Marvolo Riddle. Yes, that fucker had lived. No, he had not been killed ceremoniously in a duel against boy hero Harry Potter. He had come close, definitely! By all accounts, the man should have died on May 2nd 1998.

Though, in this reality – and what a sad, terrifying, anticlimactic reality it was! – he had lived. This gave everyone leave to have opinions on his fate. However, while everyone had opinions about the fate of one Tom Marvolo Riddle, infrequently referred to as Lord Voldemort, most fearfully called You-Know-Who; it was only Kingsley that had had enough wit and know-how about him to decide what was to happen to said fiend. He had been one of few people with his mind about him in the aftershocks of the Battle of Hogwarts. Laudable, though, also, suspicious. 

Harry had said that he didn’t have a problem with what had come to pass; he agreed wholeheartedly that bonding Tom Riddle by ancient, restrictive magic, which rendered him incapable of using his own magic, was preferable to killing him. 

‘’Maybe he _could_ try for remorse.’’ Hermione remembered looking at Harry as if he’d grown three heads and they were all arguing about which sort of pastry they wanted to gnaw on until their teeth rotted, ‘’I mean, he looked oddly at me when I asked him about it.’’ Harry whispered. His magic was restless. How could it not be, really, when the whole world of Wizarding Britain didn’t agree with the Boy Who Lived letting Lord Voldemort live? Hermione couldn't sleep when she though about what her parents might say to her when cross, let alone the whole of magical Britain.

Not to mention that Harry’s magic was restless because his best friend got an irrefusable job offer to be in close proximity of a monstrous terrorist. He mushed his face in his hand and his glasses crooked up because of this (a bane to all glasses-wearers). ‘’By oddly, I don’t mean to say he was murderous at the prospect or anything. He just looked like I’d started singing musical numbers all of a sudden.’’

‘’Poor man. You suck at singing.’’ Hermione resorted to sarcasm. 

‘’Right, poor Voldysnorts.’’ Harry rolled his eyes. He said that he felt light and airy since dying and getting rid of the horcrux living in his body, rent free.

‘’We’re instructed to call him Riddle.’’ Hermione said. She absentmindedly played with her dreads and tried not to think about how her job was going to work out. Her chest constricted painfully at the thought.

They were in Grimmauld Place, and that was a terrible spot to be in. Ron was with his family in the Burrow, trying for some semblance of peace in a mourning, disquieted world they lived in. But Hermione and Harry were together and their idea of mourning the dead was just being very weird. 

‘’Kinglsey offered me a job as Riddle’s guard and, honestly, I think I’m going to take him up on it. I know he killed your parents, and well, that’s awkward enough without me just bringing it up now like a tactless fiend - but - I _do_ value your opinion and I rather want to know what you think...’’

The location of Tom Marvolo Riddle’s whereabouts was top secret. The man was a glorified squib, yet the danger he still posed could never be underplayed. Kingsley was wise to take precautions. 

‘’Yeah, that’s super awkward of you to mention. It’s like you’ve become worse than your eleven-year-old self somehow.’’ Harry Potter said it like he saw it.

‘’I’m under stress.’’ Hermione did not like to mention that she couldn’t sleep without making sure she had Alastor Moody level of wards in her apartment, and that whenever she went someplace new, had to check up on all of the potential exits and entrances. 

Harry scoffed. ‘’Who isn’t?’’ Against everyone’s better judgement both Harry and Ron applied for auror training. Neither liked what it was, but they’d tough it out and see if they wanted to stick to it afterwards. 

‘’How are you and Ginny?’’ 

Harry shrugged. ‘’Good, I guess. Also, she’s going to want to take you out on the town when Fleur comes back from France.’’

‘’I suppose I’ll manage.’’ Hermione was already dreading any disastrous outing with the Weasleys. They were as loving as they were overbearing and only child Hermione Granger had yet to acclimate herself to that level of brutal affection.

‘’If you need an excuse, you can always tell them that you’re doing the night shift with Riddle.’’ Harry was not being helpful, but he was smiling, and that was a step up in the right direction to where they all were previously.

‘’Fuck.’’ Hermione abruptly exclaimed. Harry looked at her worriedly, the smile dropping. ‘’Imagine being on the graveyard shift with Voldemort. Honestly, Harry, that'd be terrifying.’’

‘’I fought the guy, you know. Multiple times. The only thing more frightening I can imagine about him is if he charged at me with a knife.’’

‘’A knife?’’

‘’Properly unexpected. Him resorting to muggle tactics. They taught us in auror training that the most unpredictable people are caged people, who don’t think they have any other alternative.’’ 

‘’I’ve never spoken to him.’’ Hermione confessed. As she did, she rubbed her hands together and brushed her fingers anxiously over her knuckles. ‘’I’ve heard so many terrible things about him, but Ginny’s told me that he knew to be very kind and manipulative. It’s just... A lot to think about. If I accept the offer - which _I will_ \- I’ll have to talk to him.’’

Harry asked Hermione if she thought this was wise. ‘’I mean,’’ the lack of noise, music, and normal house rustling made the silence palpable and caused their words to hold more weight than they usually would have, ‘’didn’t you want to go back to Hogwarts?’’

Nearby them was a table with biscuits. Biscuits that Harry was _attacking._

‘’I will in September. Up until September comes I’m going to be dealing with Riddle. The Dark Lord. That guy.’’ Hermione snapped her fingers and gave Harry a very awkward thumbs up. 

Harry laughed. Hermione liked it when he laughed. ‘’You’re going to treat this as a summer job. Only you could this. Interning at Tom Riddle’s.’’

‘’No.’’ Hermione bobbed her head left-right, before settling on: ‘’I mean, not really - It’ll only be eight hours a day.’’

‘’That’s a _third_ of a day.’’ 

Hermione deadpanned: ‘’I know fractions, Harry.’’

‘’Seems like you don’t.’’ Harry leaned forward and accused, a very lopsided grin on his face that only being right about something could bring about him. ‘’You’re going to bleed him dry for information. What are you looking for, exactly?’’ 

Something in Hermione seemed to switch at that thought. Harry noticed it and lapsed into silence. She drummed her fingers against the table. Her nails were coloured white because they contrasted well with her skin, and because that was the only nail polish that Luna had had on her. Luna thought that colouring your nails meant reinvention. 

Hermione stopped drumming. She looked towards the covered up painting of Walburga Black. ‘’Kingsley called me because Riddle **named** me. He said that he was bored of the aurors guarding him, and that he wanted someone to hold conversation with.’’ 

Harry inhaled sharply. He clicked his tongue. ‘’That’s bad, ‘Mione.’’

‘’It does make me unsettled.’’ Hermione’s shoulders tensed. ‘’Because I don’t know how he knows about me.’’

‘’Well, I mean, you were in the papers with me and Ron constantly. We’re the Golden Trio. And, ever since the beetle stint, Skeeter does call you only flattering names in the press. The Brightest Mind of Hogwarts she called you in one.’’

Hermione closed her eyes. ‘’That would do it.’’

‘’Wow, you don’t think Tom’s bloody jealous or something and that’s why he asked for you?’’

‘’Or he could be under stimulated.’’ Hermione said as an afterthought. 

Harry misunderstood by the look he speared her with. ‘’Hermione, what the fuck?’’

‘’It’s a scientific term, Harry.’’ Hermione quickly made sure to explain before Harry’s mind might go someplace not even science could explain away. ‘’It means that he could be bored since he hasn’t got intelligent enough company. And no offense to you, but the aurors are lacking in brainpower.’’

‘’A former auror is your current Minister.’’ Then, circling back to the main horrific fact of the evening, Harry shouted: ‘’Why the bloody hell are we pandering to Riddle’s whims? Why is he brave enough to make demands? Why is Kingsley going along with them?’’ 

‘’That’s what I’d like to figure out, too.’’ Hermione said. A serious expression adorned her face. She even steepled her fingers and pressed them to her lips. 

‘’You don’t think Kingsley’s doing something dark?’’ Harry asked. A wary sort of tone to his voice. Kingsley was a member of the Order, after all. Kingsley fought alongside them in the War. It made no sense. 

‘’Not unless he’s got a very good reason for it.’’ 

‘’And you want to see what the reason is. That’s why you’re going to accept an offer to literally interact with Riddle on a daily basis?’’ Harry thought that Hermione could be spending her time better and safer. 

Hermione squirmed in her seat and remembered that this wouldn’t be an easy job, but that she never liked easy tasks to begin with so that hopefully it would all balance one another out in the end. The more she thought about this train of thought, the more she agreed that it was beyond naive. Hermione rubbed her temples with her hands and groaned. ‘’What if he makes me look like an idiot? I can’t stand that. The man’s a walking encyclopedia.’’ She admitted during a bout of vulnerability.

‘’If Riddle makes you feel dumb you just fall back on a tactic where you tell him that all his bloody genius got him was no magic and incarceration for life.’’ 

‘’You know what, I actually will.’’ Hermione nudged Harry. ‘’Thanks.’’ 

Harry summoned Kreacher to finally get them some drinks. Kreacher returned with bleach. Harry sighed a sigh of a man who never learned. 

‘’Kreacher, could you _please_ get us some beer?’’ Hermione smiled. 

And Kreacher did that thing where he had no idea how to respond to Hermione, who was a mudblood, but the only bloody person to treat him how his late master Regulus had. In the end he bowed out, disapparated, and brought them some lager. 

Hermione toasted with Harry. ‘’To the end of the war and having oddball conversations.’’

‘’I’ll toast to that.’’ Their glasses clinked. ‘’Cheers.’’

The lagers kept coming. Harry began hissing in an attempt to make fun of parseltongue: ‘’Most useless damned thing I’ve ever had in my life. Hiss hisss hisss.’’

‘’What do snakes even talk about?’’

Harry had fuck all idea. Hermione clapped. ‘’Brill.’’

Soon enough they enchanted a record player of Sirius’ to play them music. All it knew to play was Queen music. Neither Harry nor Hermione had any problem with this. 

‘’But I'm just a poor boy and nobody loves me!’’ Harry sang, very badly. 

Hermione was a backup singer, but a piss poor one: ‘’He's just a poor boy from a poor family. Spare him his life from this monstrosity!’’

They held onto each other, because their coordination was shot. In unison: ‘’Bismillah, no we will not let you go, _let him go!_ ’’

Kreacher watched in horror as this spectacle continued in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black’s ancestral home. He should have pushed for the bleach. 

Having exhausted themselves with their dancing and overall lack of forethought, Harry and Hermione collapsed on a chaise longue and an armchair, respectfully. 

‘’Something’s fishy about this, though.’’

‘’Really bloody is.’’

‘’Kingsley’s on our side, though, right?’’ 

‘’Kingsley came out of nowhere, already prepared, knowing which binding ritual he was going to use. Usually, from my understanding, you’ve got to have clearance for this sort of thing. But Riddle was bound, literally, the night of May 2nd. Ergo, Kingsley had… _no clearance_ to do this.’’ Hermione looked at Harry, waiting on a reaction. All he did was exhale deeply through his nose and run a hand through his hair. 

‘’That’s not something anyone in the auror department wants to think about, ‘Mione.’’

‘’Why? Because it makes you uncomfortable?’’

‘’He’s the Minister and he found a way to deal with Riddle. Just, maybe we ought to let it go?’’

Hermione hummed at that in understanding. 

‘’Don’t you trust Kingsley?’’

‘’I do, Harry. Though, as you know, I also don’t like not knowing things.’’ She fixed him with a potent look, one that Harry stared down without trouble. 

Then, out of nowhere: ‘’You know the man’s got like a bazillion NEWTs.’’

‘’Why is this relevant information?’’

‘’I’m just saying it’d be a shame for you to fall in love with picking the man’s brain for dark arts rituals - don’t - don’t deny that you like learning about all of those things, you’re pretty hectic, ‘Mione. And then just decide not to go back to Hogwarts to finish your NEWTs and let him still have the most NEWTs in Hogwarts’ History.’’ Harry, apparently, had been thinking a long while about this. 

Hermione guffawed. She leaned back in her chair and shook with laughter, because there was no force on this planet that could get Hermione side-tracked enough not to consider finishing her education. ‘’Oh Harry,’’ she even wiped a tear away and silently laughed, ‘’that’s a good one.’’ Then, because they were joking, Hermione added: ‘’Why don’t you dedicate your life to studying super hard and beating his scores yourself?’’

‘’I finally understand how drunk people say things without thinking them through. Never encountered it before, but here I am witnessing my best friend losing her mind right in front of me.’’ Harry turned over on the chaise longue and tried getting comfortable to sleep. 

‘’Eh.’’ She fanned away. But then, a very harrowing thought popped into her mind. ‘’Harry.’’

‘’What?’’

‘’Do you think he’s racist?’’

‘’Yes.’’

‘’Not like blood prejudice racist, I mean - I mean you know _muggle_ racist.’’

Harry looked at Hermione and tried thinking up a good answer. ‘’Honestly,’’ he said, ‘’I’ve got no idea. It’s a fifty-fifty deal with him.’’

‘’Because of Draco Malfoy, I’ve learned so many comebacks to all sorts of mudblood remarks, but I’ve never encountered just, you know, _racism._ I think I’ll just be too flabbergasted to tell him off.’’ Hermione was beyond confused. ‘’Do I tell the man to piss off? Will he just outright tell _me_ to piss off?’’

‘’The man grew up during the 40s. If he calls you a slur because you’re black, you use magic on him in retaliation. Pavlov him.’’ Harry squinted. ‘’That’s the right psychologist, right?’’

‘’Yeah.’’ Hermione nodded. She wished she had Harry’s thick skin. ‘’You’re right. I’ll demolish him if he says something.’’

‘’Now that I think back on it, there really aren’t any black Death Eaters…’’ 

‘’Why am I doing this?’’ Hermione screamed. ‘’Why is Kingsley putting up with him?’’

‘’Maybe the guy’s just blood racist?’’ The best, most eloquent conversations could only be had whilst drunk. This Harry attested to. ‘’Kingsley would have warned you, after all.’’

‘’Yes, he would have.’’ Though, Hermione got an idea then. ‘’Unless he’s USING Riddle for his brain.’’ Hermione’s eyes glowed fiercely. She quirked her lips in a smile and went to curl one of her dreads around her finger. ‘’There’s no other use for him, I think. All he has is his knowledge - and it’d be a shame if it just remained in his head, you know?’’

‘’Why do you talk about him like that?’’

‘’I want in on that _cesspool_ full of corrosion and dark magic.’’ Hermione breathed. ''You have no idea, how much.''

Harry pushed himself forward, grabbed hold of Hermione’s free hand, and pleaded. ‘’You watch yourself, ‘Mione.’’

‘’Course.’’ Hermione grinned. ‘’Isn’t that something _I_ usually tell _you,_ Harry?’’

Her best friend scoffed. ‘’Right. Good luck. Good night...’’

Hermione wondered if she could turn the lights off wandlessly. She tried, but the attempt made all of the recently installed light bulbs pop. 

‘’Mione,’’ Harry whispered, in the dark, ‘’I’ll pay you if you do this same thing to Riddle.’’

Hermione accioed a nearby pillow to throw at Harry. 

Around that time was when Ron came back. ‘’Bloody hell. Oi, what’s happened here?’’

Harry and Hermione began snickering like children. Hermione hadn’t yet thrown the pillow, so she chucked it at Ron. Who took this as an invitation to battle. 

‘’You’re both so pissed, what the hell did I even miss?’’ Ron laughed as he slammed one conjured pillow over Harry’s face. 

‘’Hermione’s got a job.’’

‘’Most paying job in Britain, I bet.’’

‘’Ooh, she’s going to take us out to fancy restaurants when her first paycheck lands.’’ 

‘’What’s the job? You an Unspeakable finally?’’

‘’Not quite, but you know, the same rules apply.’’

Ron, without even needing to hear a single word, groaned in both horror and exhaustion. ‘’You’re going to be his guard, aren’t you? I saw Kingsley running about the more seasoned aurors, trying to get them to accept - apparently his afternoon guard quit after only a day.’’

‘’I’m the morning shift, just to clarify.’’

‘’Wow, suppose you’ll break fast with him.’’

‘’Wonder if he’s going to ask you to cook for him?’’

‘’If he does you poison him a little, bit by bit.’’

‘’Yeah, I mean, shouldn’t she just cook regularly then - no poison necessary?’’ 

Hermione glared. Ron sheepishly grinned. Harry tried alleviating the tension. ‘’All right, come off it. Hermione’s a marvelous cook. Who knows, maybe Riddle will cook _for_ her?’’

‘’Right, didn’t think of that, _did you,_ Ron?’’ Hermione vividly painted an image. ‘’Dark Lord wearing an apron and making me waffles.’’ 

‘’Can his apron have a snake pun?’’

‘’Of bloody course it can, Harry!’’

‘’Hiss the Chef.’’ Ron whispered, then when Harry and Hermione looked at him, he repeated this louder. The grin that broke out over Harry’s face was incredulous. Hermione’s wasn’t far off from being just very unamused. 

‘’Ron, leave.’’ Hermione did not tolerate puns in her presence. 

Harry, though, was laughing his arse off. He even hit furniture with his clasped fist. 

Ron sat down on the chaise longue, pushing Harry’s feet off to get space. ‘’You sure you want to do this?’’

‘’Yes.’’ Hermione said. It felt like it would give her something to do. She could spend only so much time reading books on mind magic without going crazy. Every time she cracked open a book, there was a dead end waiting for her. There’d been a censorship in literature in 1978, after which books on mind magic became a collector’s item. 

‘’Any luck on your research?’’ Ron asked, his tone hopeful and his mood chipper. 

Hermione’s lips twitched in discomfort. ‘’No.’’

That mood fell apart at her tone. He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘’Don’t worry, you’re Hermione Granger, if _you_ can’t find out how to bring back your parents’ memories, then _who_ can?’’

Harry looked to Hermione with a ton more understanding than he had at the beginning of their chat tonight. ‘’Be _careful._ ’’ He warned, again. Hermione nodded. She thanked Ron for his reassurance and opened up her arms to hug him. 

The tallest of the three members of the Golden Trio crossed over to Hermione and hugged her. She wrapped her arms around Ron.

‘’As a person who had a piece of Riddle’s soul inside him for most of his life, can I just say that I always hated waffles and I never knew why, but I like them _now_ \- so I think Riddle’s more of a pancake person.’’ 

Ron laughed so hard at that mental image that the knots in Hermione’s stomach loosened completely. She smiled at him. He leaned forward and wheezed out, barely between laughs: ‘’Ooh, Mione, such a privilege! You’ll be having _Breakfast at Tom Riddle’s_!’’


	2. What is a cynic? A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom Riddle tries to entertain himself. It goes just about as well as one would expect.

Slender fingers curled around the Daily Prophet. They wrinkled the paper with the sheer force hidden slyly behind the gesture. The date read: May 3rd, 1998. This date would go down in history as the beginning of a new world for some, the end of the only world for others, and the painful acceptance of mortality for one.

On the front page of this issue was a provocation. He ground his teeth, remembered that that was a habit he had wanted to break, and made an effort to stop.

Three _children_ stared at him from the front page. Their discomfort was evident; a wariness coloured them that would be mistaken for exhaustion, but beyond it all there was a hopeful tone in their statures. Especially oozing off of the tallest child. The red hair most certainly made it easy to single him out as a Weasley.

Since when had the Prophet splurged on coloured copies?

He had yet to read the text, focusing his attention to the other members of this so-called Golden Trio. In every group project there was a person that did all of the work. And he forced himself to read this humiliating article, littered with insults and jabs at his person – so he could find exactly who had managed to keep Harry Potter alive for so long.

A young girl (always nice to see those taking part in revolution) was to Harry Potter's other side. The look she gave the camera remained saccharine only for a moment. It faded, and that was only something that a mudblood might allow herself. Every proper mage knew to keep position for ten seconds _after_ the flash, otherwise the expression might lead to more honest conclusions. Honesty had no place in press. Honesty had no room anywhere, really –yet people constantly seemed to entertain its worth as paramount.

Nonetheless this obvious faux pas allowed him to see the girl's outright misery at being forced into the spotlight. It was minuscule, ever so brief, but it could be caught if one looked at the moving photograph over and over. He had no pressing matters to attend. After all, these children made sure of his newfound position.

Crossing his legs slightly, he leaned, put his elbow on the table nearby, and continued looking. The scar on Harry Potter's head either looked faded or some makeup artist had done a shoddy job of concealing it. Craning his neck slightly upward, he glanced at a neurotic man that tapped his foot against the floor. Not a good conversationalist that Mr. Selwyn. He knew a Selwyn, but the Selwyn he knew was not nearly as spineless as Mr. Selwyn was. In fact, through one conversation, he'd learned that Mr. Selwyn was his Slewyn's nephew. The magical world was very small.

He lowered his gaze from the photograph, intending to get started on the text. The written word fascinated him so. Especially because they had yet to tell him whether he was allowed books, or would he have to content himself with asking for the Prophet as his only source of mental stimulation. Perhaps he'd start writing Arithmancy equations for fun, wherein he would predict his guard's imminent demises? Now that sounded like quality entertainment. He wondered how many guards he could scare off this way? Maybe, he would even run a tally at the end of each month.

 _Each_ month? Had he already come to terms with this unpleasant existence? That didn't take him long.

A shaky exhale passed through his lips. The Prophet crinkled harder. Mr. Selwyn tapped his foot faster. He read as peacefully as one could under these trying circumstances.

One cup of coffee rested on the table next to him followed by a lonely, uneaten pancake. In his defence, he _was_ more of a tea person and had already consumed three pancakes.

The text itself was unbearably mediocre. Today's copy of the Daily Prophet will go down in history, yet the historians will find the written prose lacking. Rita Skeeter knew how to write slander, but when it came to praise – her quill came up short.

Harry Potter's title made an appearance on multiple occasions, whilst both Weasley and the Girl were called supportive friends. It became too banal to continue reading the article. In mourning of all of the well-executed journalists he had executed in the wars, he began eating the last pancake. Somehow, the cold pancake tasted exactly how he felt.

An urge to throw up nestled in his stomach uneasily. Had he really overeaten again? Last night he'd been given stew to eat, to bring his energy up after the invasive bond had dislocated his sense of orientation and being, but he'd thrown it all up afterwards.

''Selwyn,'' his voice, dare he say it, was quieter than he intended, ''have you got an antiemetic potion?''

The guard nodded and hurried to give it to him. Taking a sip of it was agony, and he accidentally let his expression morph into distaste as the bile travelled down his throat. Selwyn's infamous tapping intensified. He wasn't an auror anymore, Kingsley had pulled him out of _retirement_ for this. The man had accumulated a lot of debt. Enough, anyhow, to keep him coming back.

It was in poor taste to inquire about his guards' salaries. Didn't stop him from wondering.

The potion made him dizzy. Everything made him dizzy. His body had yet to grow accustomed to its limitations. Vaguely he realised that he'd crossed over to where his bedroom was. The illusion of privacy remained, so he locked the door to it. Even though he knew, all of his guards could unlock it with alohomora.

When he dozed off, he wished that he hadn't. Because not even in sleep could he be granted reprieve.

* * *

Harry Potter stared at him and panted. The boy had resurrected himself.

 _''How?''_ Voldemort spoke parseltongue, lapsing into it by accident. Harry did not seem to understand it, which was strange as he'd been told the boy could speak it.

''Tom,'' the utter nerve of this child to address him so, ''try for some _remorse._ ''

Voldemort looked at Harry and came to a harrowing conclusion that the boy had died, come back to life with what he could only assume was a hard concussion, and was grievously misunderstanding his destined enemy's motivation in life.

''No.'' He said after a pause, absolutely baffled. Harry nodded. They drew their wands and battled.

Except, well, the Death Eaters respected single combat and knew that their lord wanted to kill the boy by himself. But Minerva McGonagall did not respect Harry Potter fighting a wizard thrice his age, with more experience in battle, and a lot more cunning. So, in a cavalier fashion, she stepped into the fray of their duel.

It didn't take long for them to incapacitate him after. Not a single Death Eater had gone out of their way to rush for him. **_Traitors_.** Voldemort loathed them and wished them horror unlike anything they'd witnessed or read about.

He remembered, in agonizing detail, how Harry Potter (drenched in sweat, blood, and luck) had stood by his side and exclaimed to everyone in the most patronizing, humiliating way possible. ''We've won.'' None cheered, stilled into silence by the tied presence of Lord Voldemort, who tried to level his breathing and not think about the execution sure to follow. He was too exhausted to fight. Minerva had fired a spell at him that bordered on inflicting narcolepsy on his person. Staying awake was a task greater than Sisyphus pushing the boulder up for the first time.

Minerva's wand pressed to his throat and he chanced a glance her way. The fire in her stirred. Dumbledore, were he alive, would have stopped her from interfering. Voldemort had yet to see whether killing him would have doomed him or saved him. For now, he desperately wished to sleep. His head lulled forward in exhaustion and he closed his eyes for a second, he told himself, he would open them again in just a moment. His bones ached. His head spun. His soul wept.

The last words he heard Harry Potter say were these: ''It's over. The man that stands before you is no longer Lord Voldemort. He cannot hurt anyone ever again.''

Yes, he fell forward, that was the truth now, wasn’t it?

* * *

Kingsley Shacklebolt's idea was appealing how a starving man found the most disgusting slop appealing. It was better than death. And Kingsley made it perfectly clear that if Harry Potter was too noble and green to kill him, the auror would gladly take the task upon himself.

Another presence was in the room, standing behind him on purpose so he could not see. The runic circle they’d thrown and stuck him to did not befit an auror’s handiwork. It was made by someone that knew old magic and, furthermore, knew how to circumvent its time consuming arrangement and preparation.

Kingsley did not speak the name of his helper. ‘’He looks like he’s going to fall asleep at any moment.’’

‘’I got rid of Minerva’s enchantment, but exhaustion has finally caught up with him. He is injured and in need of medical assistance. Medical assistance,’’ now the voice, neutral in a way that made it very hard for him to discern whether it was a woman’s or a man’s, spoke to him directly, ‘’that will be withheld from you unless you comply with our demands.’’

‘’He’s already agreed.’’ Kingsley pointed out. He had eyes only on the Minister and his uneasy behaviour did not pour a sense of security into him.

‘’Agreement means nothing if he has not sworn it in oath.’’ Deft fingers grabbed the back of his neck and pushed him down to bow to Kingsley. ‘’Repeat after me: I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, descendant of Salazar Slytherin, swear to obey the terms and conditions of the bond between Kingsley Icarus Shacklebolt and myself.’’

He repeated, understanding perfectly well the consequences if he did not. Kingsley was out of view, which made this all the more perverted and thwarting. At the very least he would have made sure to keep eye contact and relay to the other party how much he wanted to kill them.

As if knowing this, the unknown mage made sure to keep him subdued and aching. When Kingsley had pulled him away from Hogwarts he’d taken him to the deepest bowels of the Ministry. Therein the circle already waited. He had a hunch that they were in one of the laboratories of the Unspeakables.

They went through the motions of the bond. Kingsley’s terms were that in exchange for allowing him to live unharmed, as comfortable as the circumstances allowed, and without fear of being attacked or killed by his guards – he would in turn have to give Kingsley all relevant information on the identities of the Death Eaters, their secret safe houses, information about the inner workings of the Dark Mark, the locations of the holding cells wherein they’d kept prisoners of war, and his oath that he would not work in favour of the Death Eaters.

This was … not nearly as much as he expected Kingsley to ask of him. The Death Eaters could all die for all he cared. From the beginning it’d only been about his attainment of power, his survival of war, and his powerful sense of adaptability. The only one he would be sad to see die would be Abraxas’ son, but with such a liar for a wife – he wanted her to feel just as much pain as he did right now. If watching her husband die would achieve that then let it be so.

The fingers holding him in place embedded nails into his flesh. He let out a hiss of pain, unexpectedly.

‘’Kingsley,’’ the voice was enraged, ‘’do not forget yourself. Remember _our_ terms.’’

All he had to go off of was Kingsley’s voice. It was calm, how one might be when forcing down all emotions. ‘’I do remember them, but I also remember telling you I felt they did not reflect what I wanted from the prisoner.’’

Prisoner? They’d stripped him of his chosen name and forced him back to his disgusting muggle roots, and now they did not use that name, but a title of their own making? A title representing his own undoing, at that!

An abrupt, tense laugh enveloped him. It froze them into silence. Their heated debate faded, not that he was privy to its contents in full – his headache cascaded through his form mercilessly. The circle drained him, and he hadn’t yet sealed it with his magic. He prepared himself to faint from magical and physical exertion. It would not be a good day for his pride, but what did pride mean when compared to survival?

‘’You will not adhere to the terms we set, then?’’

‘’No.’’ Kingsley was bolder than Dumbledore, he thought and closed his eyes. The hand let go of him, but a wand pressed against his throat and **_slit_.**

His eyes shot open as he pressed against the wound. The blood became a stark contrast to his paling, white skin. It **_hurt_.** He could not breathe. All he could hope was that someone would heal him before he bled out. Some droplets of blood fell upon the circle and the runic markings glowed a fierce lilac colour. Another, much larger wave of nausea struck him as he felt his magic dissipating into him.

Kingsley shouted a spell that had the other mage falling. It was a woman. She wore Unspeakable robes. He tried recognizing her, but very few knew the identity of an Unspeakable. They were the rarest form of mage found in their world, privy to information almost none could glean. Her head was turned from him knowingly.

It was only thanks to Kingsley’s amazing combatant skills that he apprehended the Unspeakable _and_ managed to get to him in time to heal the wound. Praised be, Kingsley Shacklebolt, his saviour – his bonder.

‘’I apologize, Riddle.’’

He felt full, yet strange, and definitely as if shaken with fever. One’s magic was not meant to be contained in this way. ‘’Kill her.’’ She would be a loose end. Kingsley did not heed his warning.

‘’I understand your anger, but that is not how I do things.’’

As if he wanted her dead because of his pride? Pride meant _nothing_ to him anymore. But, if Kingsley did not want to listen to him, then he would let the auror dig his own grave.

* * *

His new abode was an apartment in a muggle district, hidden behind wards that would make even Hogwarts whistle in appreciation. ‘’Was this the Unspeakable’s work, too?’’ Hoarsely he asked Kingsley, who only nodded as answer.

‘’Change the wards.’’

‘’I will.’’

 _‘’Now._ ’’ He had no magic to control and inflict on others. He could not see what others thought anymore, but at least he still held onto his crafted Occlumency shields. They were old and made him feel a tad safer than any other part of his new life did.

Kingsley’s brows furrowed at the tone, no doubt livid. ‘’Do not order me, Riddle.’’ But he changed the wards to not obey the Unspeakable anymore. To do this, however, Kingsley had to know the identity of said Unspeakable. Intriguing.

Riddle, and it was time to accept that name, wasn’t it – turned to Kingsley and hissed in parseltongue, finding the tongue easier on his shabbily healed vocal cords. _‘’My apologies.’’_

The auror said nothing to this. But he did motion for the nearby kitchen and the fridge. ‘’There ought to be food with a stasis charm on there. Have some, or don’t. I will come back tomorrow.‘’

He was leaving him? Alone? Very foolish.

Kingsley opened the main door and greeted a new mage. This one was dressed, not in Unspeakable robes, but those of a Hit Mage. She fixed him with a look that said she would not tolerate anything he had to say to her.

‘’I’ll work on finding the rest of your guards, Riddle. For now, you and Caroline will be spending some quality time together. Welcome to your new life. When you’re better rested we will go over all relevant information you have for me.’’ Then, because he was blankly staring at Caroline the entire time, Kingsley demanded through the bond: ‘’Is that understood?’’

He nodded, finding his knees too weak to stand. There was a couch behind him.

Caroline went towards the fridge, found something to eat, heated it up, and handed what appeared to be a stew to him. ‘’Eat, Riddle.’’ Her accent was unmistakably posh. She did not flaunt her family name, like every other pureblood might. Was it because of mystery? Had he killed her family? Had her family worked alongside him?

He ate. And then threw up over her shoes. Whilst staring down at them and writhing in agony he did make a mental note to ask her where she’d gotten them from. They were very nice boots. Perhaps it was the exhaustion or the pain, ache, burn of having his magic contained, but when he lifted his face to look at Caroline, he saw a wholly different woman.

She took her wand, grimaced, and spelled him asleep.

* * *

Selwyn didn’t want to talk to him, nor did he enjoy being in his presence. This was fine. The feeling was very much mutual. His mornings passed in peace, but the newspaper he read made his blood boil. It’d been kind of Selwyn to give him the newspaper at all and to make him coffee and pancakes. Kingsley had probably instructed him to keep an eye out on him for this first week. The pancakes _were_ a bit dry. When he got better he’d make a point of cooking his own food. For now, he would **endure** this horror.

In the afternoon he saw a stone-faced auror that gruffly said his name was Andrew Fawley. He did not enter the safe-house, but decided to guard the perimeter from the door.

Riddle tried to sleep during the afternoon, feeling run over and weak.

Caroline spent the night rummaging throughout this apartment – around forty square metres? She showed him that he had a lot of knives and that if he showed any violent tendencies towards her or any of his guards she would take them away and force him to cut his meal with a spoon. Placidly he nodded and curled on the couch in the living room. She’d brought him robes. They fit him. They fit him _too_ well. ‘’These are my robes.’’

‘’Yes.’’

‘’No, you misunderstand. These are _my_ robes. Back from Malfoy Manor.’’

Caroline nodded. ‘’They are. We are not wasting any resources on you that we don’t have to.’’

Holding onto one of his robes, he managed a nod. Antoinette had bought these robes for him a long time ago. When he rested his face on the smooth, fine fabric he remembered the French bride of his Abraxas. She’d taught him French and he’d taught her English.

‘’What do you need?’’

‘’Access to my magic.’’ Petulantly he said.

Caroline did not give a single reaction. ‘’I cannot give you that. Would you like to eat?’’

‘’I will most certainly throw it up again.’’

‘’Nonsense. I’ll make you soup.’’

‘’Really, there is no need.’’

‘’It takes me ten minutes to make one. I saw bags in muggle markets. You just chuck the contents into boiling water and have instant soup.’’

‘’That sounds dreadful.’’

It was _not_ dreadful. It was the _only_ damned thing he could stomach.

* * *

Kingsley had a habit of being too polite for his own good. ‘’I apologize for not coming yesterday, but I had duties at the Ministry.’’

‘’Are you Minister?’’ he made his very own soup because Caroline gave him fifteen bags to store in his kitchen. The idea of rearranging it to fit his mould thrilled him. He had lowered his standards and tried to find silver linings everywhere.

‘’There will be a vote tomorrow.’’

‘’Expeditive.’’ He whispered and took a sip of the soup. Kingsley eyed him, but said nothing while he ate. After finishing his meal, he asked the auror: ‘’You have kept your part of the deal and you will continue to do so – but the bond reminds me that I have yet to uphold my end. Ask me about the Mark, and the Death Eaters – and I shall sing to you most pleasantly like a nightingale.’’

Kingsley took a seat with him at the dining table, steepled his fingers, and spoke: ‘’We have apprehended all of the Death Eaters present at the Battle of Hogwarts. They are in Azkaban. The only ones who escaped are the Malfoys, but we will get to them fast. Aside from the mentioned parties, who else was a sympathiser or a Death Eater that wasn’t at Hogwarts?’’

‘’Sympathisers? This was not part of the deal –you asked me for identities of _marked_ soldiers and supporters. If we started on about sympathisers you would need a ten-foot parchment and a brand new uprooting of the Ministry.’’ A smile. ‘’I imagine the Dementors would be pleased by such copious amount of food.’’

‘’Fine. Marked only.’’ Kingsley did not show his reaction to finding out about the climate of the Ministry’s allegiance. He would have to choose his inner circle very, very carefully. If elected.

‘’Did you kill the Unspeakable as I told you?’’

‘’You aren’t allowed to speak of Unspeakable matters.’’

‘’Ha.’’ A pause. Then another one: ‘ _’Ha_.’’ All whilst sporting the most unamused of expressions. ‘’Your dry wit impresses me, Minister.’’

‘’I have not been elected.’’

‘’But you **_will_ **be. Stop playing coy.’’ He was harsh, but Kingsley needed to hear it upfront before getting himself involved in politics. ‘’Being Minister now, right after a civil war, is the most ungrateful position one can be bestowed. You are an _auror_. Of course, they will give it to _you._ Prepare for that viper’s nest. We, Slytherins, may be snakes, but nothing can compare to the talons and fangs of a bureaucrat.’’

‘’Give me names.’’ Kingsley refused to listen to him. Fine.

‘’Geraldine Fawley was in charge of getting us supplies from across the Channel. Quill Dervish was our contact in Brussels, he arranged to send us portkeys and was supposed to work on extraction, in the case of failure. Check him for locations of possibly escaped Death Eaters.’’ Talking about this bolstered him, it made the ache fade, it made the burn diminish. ‘’Travers… Patricia? I always called her Travers. She was in charge of body disposal. Gave the purebloods proper burial rituals, but I think she simply burned the mudbloods with fiendfyre. Ermina Shafiq … no, she defected and Bella killed her.’’ He furrowed his brows, forcing himself to concentrate harder and remember the Death Eaters that weren’t in Azkaban, or dead.

‘’Write me a list of all of the names and locations of safe houses. You’ll help me tie this war up finally and be done with it.’’

‘’Make a work force.’’ He idly suggested. ‘’Death Eater hunters!’’

‘’A work force never does anything.’’

‘’Correct. I was once part of a work force and I ended up doing everything myself. Make up a team and instate clear laws that failure to do one’s part ends in death.’’ Kingsley conjured him a piece of parchment and a quill, with its inkwell – and told him to write. He acquiesced to the command.

‘’Write me locations of safe houses.’’

‘’I am.’’

‘’Good.’’

* * *

A week passed and he began accepting his new identity. The Riddles were dead and he, being obviously the most superior of that family, deserved to carry it far more than they did. Besides, Caroline rolling that name on her lips did sound very nice. He still had no idea what her family name was.

‘’I heard you scared off Fawley.’’

It was a piece of cake. He’d gotten the man’s full name from Selwyn, written out an equation of arithmancy with it, and expressly explained to him that he was going to die in a heinous way. He still enjoyed replaying the memory of watching the hardened auror pale and decide to quit.

‘’Is the Minister angry with me?’’

‘’Annoyed to have to find a new guard, but not angry. He expected it.’’

‘’If he would bring me a book to read I would have no need to resort to such juvenile tactics.’’

Caroline hummed in agreement. She handed him a copy of the Quibbler. The Prophet bored and depressed him. This, at least, got him to smile.

‘’Do you think any of these creatures are real?’’

Caroline shrugged. She was not a woman of many words, thus made a bad conversationalist. Though, she quite enjoyed listening, and that wasn’t a bad thing either. He, Riddle, relished in speaking and being listened to.

He didn’t only sustain himself on soup anymore. Now he made himself proper, brilliant pancakes in the morning.

* * *

Another week passed and another guard left. Selwyn and Caroline remained.

When Caroline refused to give him her surname when he wanted to do an arithmancy exercise with her, he decided to switch it up. ‘’When is your birthday?’’

‘’Trying to make me a natal chart, then?’’

‘’I haven’t better things to do.’’

The Daily Prophet was full of trials, recovered bodies, and teary interviews of family members. The Quibbler continued to be a source of sanity for Riddle to latch onto.

Caroline shrugged. ‘’1958, July 13th.’’

Upon making it, all he had to say was: ‘’Your love life is shite. And you have a terrible relationship with your family…oh, look, it isn’t all so grim. See, see this part here – look – it denotes a change in your life. You will reconnect with someone from your past whom you have always wanted to. Or never wanted to?’’ Whispering, mainly for himself: ‘’Ahh, am not a right proper seer.’’

‘’Merci.’’ Caroline rolled her eyes, pulling the parchment with her natal chart on from him. ‘’I don’t believe in that claptrap anyhow.’’

‘’Really? You don’t believe in Divination and unearthing the true meaning of fate?’’ Riddle was horrified to hear.

‘’Did believing in half-baked prophecies help you?’’ Caroline returned ten-fold harsher than Voldemort first thought anyone dared speak to him.

He’d gone on a bit of a rant about Dumbledore the night prior. Caroline had been a good sport and listened. At the end all she had to say was: ‘’That’s rough.’’ It felt good to be validated.

‘’Do not attack me like this, Caroline.’’ Riddle said now.

‘’Don’t be an easy target, then, Riddle.’’

‘’Touché.’’

* * *

The next afternoon guard didn’t even last a week.

The one after that lasted barely three days.

Riddle rather enjoyed this sport he’d developed out of sheer boredom.

* * *

Kingsley came by at times to check up on Riddle and see if he was being well taken care of, as that had unfortunately been one of the clauses of their agreement. Riddle asked him if he could get books. Kingsley tortured him by switching the subject.

The Daily Prophet had another article about this Golden Trio. Angrily he read. Not particularly angry at the children who’d taken him down, but at Kingsley who thought that newspapers were perfectly reasonable reading material. They offered him no escapism. He couldn’t try maladaptive daydreaming via Daily Prophet, for fuck’s sake.

The newest afternoon guard was a woman named Gladys Green, also Hit Mage. She told him Caroline’s surname. He decided to be extra nice to Gladys for this. And not only because she brought him a book. It was a trashy romance novel, but it had a franchise, and Riddle craved the written word.

That night, when Caroline came back, Riddle grinned: ‘’Hello, _Yaxley_.’’

‘’Hello, Riddle.’’ Caroline Yaxley gave him no indication that she was mad that he knew her name, and this ruined his plans to make fun of her.

Every afternoon he and Gladys would talk about what an absolute idiot the protagonist was. He decided she had to leave when their opinions on who the protagonist was supposed to end up with differed. Gladys’s choice did not even love the protagonist and they were horrifically incompatible. He was much too stupid for her. If Riddle forced himself into a relationship, it would be with someone that could keep up with him.

Gladys left after he threatened her children with arithmancy equations.

Kingsley wasn’t angry, but he did show his disappointment. He confiscated the books before Riddle could read the final one and find out who the protagonist ended up with. Not knowing made him stay up. Caroline, in a fit of desperation to get him to stop talking to her, told him to write the ending himself.

Thus began Tom Marvolo Riddle’s arduous journey into creative writing.

‘’What is a good synonym for said?’’

‘’Just use said, please.’’

‘’But how will I properly convey that I am an _artiste?_ ’’

‘’Aren’t you writing this for yourself and not some audience?’’

‘’I wanted to give it to you to read.’’

‘’I don’t know enough about these characters to talk about them.’’

‘’I’ll give you a quick rundown of the six books I’ve read –it all began with Mary Smith, our drop dead gorgeous protagonist who somehow thinks she looks as plain as white bread – stop snorting, the author used that exact descriptor for her…anyhow – she goes out to get some groceries and runs into tall, dark, and incredibly handsome–‘’

Caroline decided she could do her job better from outside the apartment. Riddle could not cross the threshold.

When she came back the next night she was slapped in the face lightly with his first draft.

It took her very little to use her wand on him, but Kingsley had instructed all of the guards not to hurt him unless it was in self defence.

‘’I brought you a magazine.’’ Caroline said. It made Riddle shut his mouth and wait in anticipation. He clasped his unnaturally pale hands together and gazed hungrily at Caroline’s backpack. She dug out a magazine about space. Icarus, it was called. He was going to start believing in synchronicity if this continued.

‘’Please, stop talking to me about this trashy romance you’re invested in. I know you miss books and I know you like space, so _here_.’’ Caroline threw the magazine at him.

He caught it. ‘’How do you know I enjoy space?’’

Quickly, Caroline said: ‘’You look the type.’’

For that night Caroline read this awful, terrible first draft while Riddle was consumed in space advances.

When he asked her if she liked it, Caroline really tried letting him down easy because she knew that an author’s ego was fragile: ‘’I hate it. Never give me anything of yours to read again.’’

The devastation in his red eyes made her feel bad…in her defence she’d expected the bloody Dark Lord, known terrorist and killer, to shake it off. In retaliation, he got rid of the afternoon guard. The man was bawling as he told everyone he quit.

* * *

Kingsley visited and looked like he was on the verge of a mental breakdown. He only visited during Caroline’s shift. They’d been in the auror programme together, but Caroline had decided that being an auror didn’t suit her, so she specialized for Hit Mage.

Riddle was in the middle of making a soufflé as that was something that Caroline liked to eat and Riddle was nothing, if not a suck up. It brought him back to his Slug Club days. Ah, _nostalgia._

‘’Why are you making one in the _evening?_ ’’

‘’Because I sleep four hours a day and have to find something to fill the time with, Minister. I cook a lot. Don’t eat it all, which is a right shame, but I do give it to Caroline for her to take home.’’ Gesturing a seat, ‘’Sit, sit. What interests you today? I’ve been boycotting the Prophet, so I do not know much about what is going on. Caroline refuses to speak politics with me, Selwyn is one jitter away from a heart attack, I fear –and guard number thirteen is apparently very inconsiderate to my burning questions. I shall make her leave soon.’’

Kingsley said nothing. He even decided to stare at the clasps on his robe very intensely. Caroline did not go up to him and ask him about his feelings, not because of professional reasons, but because she hated exhibiting feelings and would rather die. Riddle respected that.

‘’The Unspeakable is missing.’’

‘’Good job, Minister!’’

Missing meant dead.

Kingsley shook his head.

Missing did _not_ mean dead.

Caroline stood watch of them and asked no questions. She was like one of the Queen’s guards in that regard. It was either a depiction of utmost loyalty or the complete opposite. Severus Snape had been as stone cold during Death Eater meetings, which now upon retrospect, Riddle found _telling._ Perhaps he was simply projecting? He wouldn’t put it past himself.

Kingsley handed Riddle the Prophet – and there was yet another article about the Boy Who Lived. But this was not what he was instructed to read. The article in question was regarding the French demanding the nature of Riddle’s bond be released to the public to verify the humaneness of its existence and functionality. There were citations from 1946, when a convention was formed to protect the basic rights of prisoners. A muggle one existed much longer, but the mages always did linger behind the more progressive aspects of the muggle world.

‘’I told you this was the most ungrateful position to have, didn’t I?’’ A pleased smile plastered itself on Riddle’s inhumane face. Kingsley said nothing to him. Riddle considered telling these people that they couldn’t just bind his magic, keep him away from books and people, and expect him not to want to talk the ears off from the people he did have access to.

‘’I cannot, in good faith, tell them anything.’’

There were rumours speculating the darkness of the bond. ‘’Who told Skeeter about the nature of the bond?’’

‘’The Unspeakable. Before I could go after her, she disappeared.’’

Riddle nodded. He glanced over to Caroline and asked her what she thought of this mess.

‘’I am a Hit Mage. Politics disinterest me. Consider me a wand to be directed for the betterment of my country.’’

‘’Do not be so crass, Caroline. In this world you cannot afford to be apolitical. And that is auror talk. Aurors are tools.’’

Both ex-aurors speared him with a look. Cheekily he grinned at them and flipped through the Prophet. ‘’Have the French demanded anything more? Has anyone else demanded anything?’’

‘’They threatened to take this to the MUE.’’

Caroline let out a derisive snort.

Riddle set the Prophet down and went back to check on his soufflé. ‘’Ah, our _warped_ version of the European Union. Never you fret, Minister! I have some contacts high up there. I slept with half of them, to be fair –so I do not know if we can expect _much_ from them as they proved lacking, but at your command I shall give you their names.’’

‘’Keep your sympathisers.’’ Kingsley did not mention how awkward it was witnessing the ex-Dark Lord tending to a soufflé, when the constitution of magical Britain was in dire danger.

‘’I came only to tell you that I was going to change the wards.’’

‘’Go on then,’’ dismissively Riddle fanned the concern away. Caroline clasped her hands behind her back and bowed at Kingsley when he instructed her to keep a closer eye on Riddle. When the wards fell, he could try to run.

Riddle rather wanted to make certain his soufflé turned out well (it was his first time attempting such a culinary feat) so he couldn’t care less about the wards. Without magic he could only go so far.

The wards were changed and maintained. ‘’Riddle.’’ He turned to Kingsley. ‘’Until this business with the Unspeakable is settled, do not make me get you new guards. Behave.’’

‘’I want books.’’

Kingsley finally yielded. ‘’Tell Caroline and she will do her best.’’

Caroline looked expectantly at him.

‘’Now that I have the option I find my mind a blank for titles. Good night, Minister.’’

Kingsley waved unexpectedly. He was growing used to him. How sweet.

When the Minister left, Riddle turned to Caroline and said he wanted the last book in that trashy romance series because he had to KNOW. It was eating him alive. No matter how many endings he wrote, he felt that they could never measure up to the published ending.

* * *

Riddle was appalled at the true ending of the series. The writing was worse than his. He was ashamed that someone had published this. To make matters worse Mary Smith ended up with a heart of gold idiot – and not the cunning, tall, and extremely handsome surgeon Riddle had been rooting for.

He handed the book to Caroline and pleaded: ‘’Throw it away, please. I do not want to see this book ever again. I shall go to my kitchen and make myself a cake as a consolation prize.’’

‘’Can you make it chocolate?’’

‘’This is the only cake I know how to make as all other cakes pale in comparison.’’

‘’Parfait.’’

The cake was as much of a disaster as his current emotional state was. Caroline called this cake inedible. He both enjoyed and hated her frankness.

* * *

The Quibbler did an interview with Hermione Granger.

Whilst waiting an hour for his roast to, well, roast… Riddle decided to read it.

His afternoon guard was a tall and beady eyed woman named Emily Evelyn Emerson. Yet again, he enjoyed the alliteration, but wondered about the odds. She was a morbid type of woman and found his equations thrilling. Damn. Kingsley had brought him a challenge. He would crack this egg; it was only a matter of time.

Luna Lovegood was a better writer than Rita Skeeter. Her writing had a sense of assuredness and calm that truly transformed the written word into something joyful to take in. Whenever Riddle read the Prophet and had to read Skeeter’s article he thought he was getting an ulcer.

This interview was more of a What Comes Next for The Golden Girl type of interview, rather than a recap of the war. _Finally!_ Something he could read without growing angry at the sheer amount of misinformation being wildly thrown around.

Hermione Granger wanted to return to Hogwarts and finish her education. Smart, sensible individual. If he could go back to Hogwarts, he would at a drop of a hat. Or at the drop of a led balloon. Depending on which landed faster. There were some enchanted hats out there in the world that made physics hateful.

This girl had a lot of OWLs. Ha. She cheated the system and picked Muggle Studies as an easy O, just like he had. The more Riddle read this article the more he was convinced that this girl was the brain of Potter’s group. He had no problem with intelligent people, he himself was one, but he disliked misinformation. Selwyn nearly had a panic attack when Riddle had thrown a newspaper at him after they’d gotten his quote wrong. And he had had a fair share of quotes from the first war. Though, during the first war, someone had tried to accredit a quote by Niccolo Machiavelli to him, and he both wanted to laugh for hours about the sheer ignorance of this person and the idea that he should let it slide for the fun of it.

But here. Here he found no laughter.

Because this was slander and an attack on _his_ person.

Aloud he read: ‘’As the Brightest Mind of Hogwarts what are your plans for after you graduate?’’ Sputtering. ‘’Br-brightest mind of Hogwarts? The absolute _nerve._ As if I was dead, they seek to erase my accomplishments and put this, this **_mudblood_ **in my stead?’’

The roast was ruined. Emily left. Selwyn fainted and Riddle had to take care of the man and apologize for causing his poor health to worsen. Caroline was his only constant in life that never let him down. He wished everyone in his life could be like Caroline. Even his dear Bella had ruined his vision of her. 

To placate him Caroline brought him a new book to dive into. A Game of Thrones, it was called.

* * *

Ned Stark was his favourite character; he hoped nothing too terrible happened to him.

* * *

He still seethed when he saw Hermione Granger appear in the Prophet and the Quibbler. He had so little now – and the only thing he had always coveted was being taken from him by a mudblood that his Bella had ruined. But the girl had not been broken. And maybe, just maybe, because of such a feat – Riddle would entertain the fantastical idea of Hermione Granger being _A_ Brightest Mind of Hogwarts. Which, yes, he knew, his idea was not grammatically correct because of the superlative in the title.

* * *

Ned Stark died and the world was cruel and run by fools. 

* * *

Kingsley came to him, harrowed and underfed. He wanted to renegotiate their bond terms. Caroline watched like a hawk as she leaned on the main door’s frame.

Riddle was, yet again, in the kitchen. Kneading dough stopped him from kneading someone’s head. The more time he spent in this crampt, _crampt_ space the less he thought he would stay sane. At first the gravity of his situation had not yet settled in, but now he understood his position and could feel enough agitation and fury to be rightfully miserable.

‘’What would you like to negotiate?’’

The bond was set and if they wanted to break and remake it – Riddle would have his magic back for a while, and Kingsley knew that he could not win against him. So, the bond remained – but another form of deal would be granted.

‘’Caroline, could you leave us for a moment, please?’’

Riddle turned to regard Kingsley for the first time as someone interesting.

Caroline left them. She closed the front door and stood watch outside earshot.

‘’You can speak parseltongue?’’

_‘’Of course, I can. Who do you take me for, Minister?’’_

Kingsley nodded, appeased. ‘’I need you to encrypt all evidence of your bond. I cannot let the spies in the Ministry get their hands on this invaluable information. It will ruin me and the standing of the Ministry. This is exactly what your sympathisers want –to weed us. And the only thing I’ve thought of that will deter them well is using parseltongue to do it.’’

‘’Unless _they_ have a parselmouth.’’

‘’You make barely a 1% of the magical population. I severely doubt there are more of you in Europe.’’ Kingsley stopped for a moment and asked, dreading the answer: ‘’You don’t have any secret children do you?’’

‘’No.’’ Riddle was flabbergasted at the thought. Kingsley saw it and loosened his posture, only slightly. But then, Riddle pressed his hands into his robe’s pocket and leaned back on the fridge, dough discarded. ‘’As the saying goes, Minister, what’s in it for me if I protect your dark secrets?’’ He gave the Minister a cocky grin.

‘’What do you want?’’ Kingsley sighed. ‘’Do you want more books?’’

Casually he slipped out of the kitchen and circled Kingsley, watching as the mage tensed, even knowing that he was speaking to someone without magic. ‘’I do believe the stakes have been raised, Minister. I do not want your charity now. Hmm, I have recently been very angered by books and wish to take a pause from them. Do you know what else I’ve recently seen? Something that irked me, Minister. _Very much so._ ’’ He stepped closer, and closer. But Kingsley, ever the Gryffindor, did not take a step back. They were neck and neck.

Kingsley’s wand was in his hand, and he had a tight grasp on it, willing to use it the minute Riddle proved insubordinate. Was it insubordinate if one wanted to punch the Minister for Magic really, really badly? Had he told Caroline to leave in case Kingsley decided to unleash his pent up rage on him? Would the little King of a Collapsing Castle do something so foul?

‘’I will only ask you once to step back and civilly tell me what you want in exchange.’’

It would be better not to suffer from magical maladies and injuries if he could help it. Riddle mockingly bowed and took a few steps back. They both stood, but the ball was in his court, and that made all the difference to how the circumstances of the bond had come about.

As if without a care in the world, and all of the time in the universe at his disposal, Tom Riddle took a seat at the dining table in his kitchen, pressed elbows to the surface, and stared at Kingsley with a self-confident smirk.

The wait was unbearable. But finally, when Tom Riddle leaned back into his chair and crossed one arm over the back of said chair, he decided to let Kingsley know _exactly_ what he wanted: ‘’Get me Hermione Granger.’’


	3. The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Kingsley talk. Harry and Ron help.

There were rules when dealing with Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Hermione found that she liked how structured this job was, until the structure worked directly against her.

''If you don't like what he's saying to you, you aren't allowed to spell him silent. I know many have a problem with this rule, but it is one's basic right to speak their mind. My advice is to remove yourself from his presence and guard from outside the apartment. He cannot cross the threshold.''

Jimmy Brook nodded. He was the newest afternoon guard. The youngest insofar; he'd been an auror for only seven years and three of those he’d spent inside the Ministry doing paperwork. Kingsley was running out of options. From what Harry's told Hermione, all of the auror guards had been aurors for at least fifteen years. But the impossibility of the job had spread and no seasoned auror wanted part of Riddle's security detail due to moral differences. Kingsley _did_ have to choose aurors that wouldn't retaliate by killing Riddle, after all. That was a mighty feat unto itself.

Hermione stood firmly in place, her hands clasped neatly behind her back. Kinglsey's hair had turned a galled grey colour gradually over the course of a month. The stress he was under was not something Hermione could fathom, but the distressing tells were there.

''You are not allowed to punish him with magic – he does not know this, so I recommend keeping this information to yourself. If he does attack you for whatever reason, I trust that you know enough hand to hand combat to subdue a magicless prisoner.’’

Jimmy cracked an arrogant grin. ‘’Of course, Minister.’’

Hermione did not know hand to hand combat how an auror that had passed auror training did. She raised her hand, but Kingsley signalled her to ask him after he finished. The hand dropped.

‘’The location of Riddle’s whereabouts will be kept secret and you will be made to swear not to reveal it. Even under duress.’’ Jimmy’s eyebrows shot up at the last part. Hermione’s discomfort grew. This was serious business.

‘’If at any moment you decide to quit and find that being in Riddle’s presence proves too much – you are to tell me AFTER your shift has ended. Naturally all of the things you have seen, heard, and learned will be obliviated from your brain so as not to burden you and to maintain utmost secrecy.’’

Jimmy nodded. Hermione mimicked him, radiating nervousness for everyone to lap up. He nudged her gently with his elbow while Kingsley took up a parchment to read from. She glanced his way and saw him wink playfully at her. It caused her to give him a small smile.

‘’Minister, who is currently with Riddle?’’

‘’Your colleague who has graciously decided to spend twenty-four hours with Riddle, instead of the usual eight; I recommend you both thank her when you see her.’’ Kingsley levelled his eyes on them both to tell them that he was serious about this and that compared to them both, their third colleague was doing more than any of the previous guards. What a legend one had to be to spend twenty-four hours with, what only Hermione could assume to be a very stir-crazy Lord Voldemort. _Riddle._

Jimmy and Hermione made a very mismatched pair. He was tall, healthy, and very, very blond. His hair made Hermione squint. And she was a child soldier that found actually being asleep a luxury. Nightmares plagued her and loud noises made her tense and remember things she wanted to repress. But, Hermione wanted answers far more than she did sleep – so none of these things could deter her from accepting this job.

A few more rules followed, but they were all things that were usual in security detail work. They were given contracts to sign and they did with magical quills, similar to the ones Umbridge had used. These used blood, but they left no scar.

Kingsley dismissed Jimmy Brook and the man left with only a pleasant goodbye and a promise to be in touch with further instructions. The moment the door closed and it was just him and Hermione, she could see that a weight lifted from his shoulders. He slumped in his seat and motioned for Hermione to take hers.

‘’Posturing is something I am yet to master, Hermione.’’ He smiled at her with a weary smile.

Hermione returned it. ‘’That’s something you’ve got to know now, Minister.’’

‘’Please, for Order members I will always be Kingsley.’’

It was good to know that Kingsley remained the same Kingsley. But he couldn’t be the same just as she could not be the same. Things had changed and they would both be fools not to accept this.

‘’I signed this thing,’’ Hermione waved her copy of the contract. Kingsley nodded, inclining his head for Hermione to ask her questions and air out her grievances. ‘’I have concerns about the no magic clause…’’ She shifted through the contract and found that what was there minutes ago had disappeared and couldn’t be found. Not even in the small print. Hermione tore her gaze from her signed contract to Kingsley, her eyes burning, burning, _scorching._

‘’I glamoured your contract so Brook wouldn’t get suspicious. Obviously, Hermione, you aren’t capable of doing this job how a trained professional can. This is not meant to offend your capabilities.’’

‘’Of course not, sir. I haven’t even graduated Hogwarts yet.’’ Hermione knew it was silly to hold her up to the same standard as aurors and adults. Well, older adults. How was she an adult? At the same time she felt too young, yet too old.

‘’So I allow you to use magic to defend yourself.’’ 

‘’There’s no clause on that, Kingsley.’’ Hermione flipped through the contract again, her heart beating, her muscles becoming tense, her life swirling into an amalgam of opportunity.

‘’I trust that you can make that decision by yourself. You know the stakes. I know you know that he cannot be taken seriously and that he has, what I can only call, a personal vendetta against you and your accomplishments. I trust you implicitly.’’ Kingsley said this all genuinely. It could be felt in his magic, dancing languidly now in the presence of a friend and comrade. Hermione’s magic crackled in uncertainty, trying to find its footing after a year of running and fighting. Peace was a luxury few knew to enjoy. Hermione simply hoped that she could force herself to enjoy it for the sake of her health. 

‘’Thank you, Kingsley. Your trust in me will not be misplaced.’’ Hermione promised. But a promise was not an oath, and both knew this. 

This was good. Hermione did not show it. She asked Kingsley about how he was doing. Though, the thoughts swirling in her head were not for the pictures he painted with his words, but that of her parents. The most understanding, 

‘’I shall not lie to you, Hermione, the French have us cornered.’’

The most kind, 

‘’What do you think you’re going to do about that then?’’

The most loving,

‘’I have already set a plan into motion.’’

The most supportive, 

‘’Kingsley, be careful.’’ Hermione said, her voice hoarse from remembering and trying to stifle emotions down. For months she’d been doing this and worried for when the time came for it all to overwhelm her. 

‘’You as well, Hermione. Riddle is not to be trifled with. Remember that even though he may be bound, his words and knowledge make him the most dangerous prisoner of Britain.’’

That knowledge was exactly what Hermione hoped to meet. She would not underestimate him, of course, but knowing the things she knew about her contract eased her panic. Because if, for whatever reason, Riddle didn’t want to tell her what she desperately needed to know - then she could _force_ it out of him. 

Kingsley opened the door for her and she thanked him for everything he was doing. They said goodbye to each other like friends come from war only could. 

Outside of the door she saw Harry with a small banner that said: **Congratulations on your terrible job.** Then beneath those letters, in smaller font: **Please make an excuse to punch him in the face at least once. Do it for your best mate. The whole auror department salutes your efforts.**

Hermione guffawed. She couldn’t help herself. When sleep deprived all sorts of dumb things were hilarious to her. Harry vanished the banner and decided to take Hermione out on a drink while they waited for Ron to finish up some things. ‘’They’ve got him on paperwork duty. He hates it, but at least there’s this fun bloke there - Jimmy Brook. Did I tell you about him?’’ Hermione nodded. The man had been mentioned. ‘’Anyway, yeah, I saw him creeping out of Kingsley’s office just now and am I to understand that he’s the new afternoon guard?’’

‘’Yu _p_.’’ For the crassness of it and the overall lack of fun in her life currently, Hermione popped the p. Harry appreciated that. They decided to go to a nearby cafe and wait for Ron there. Harry cast his patronus and sent it. 

‘’We’re using intricate magic to send each other notes.’’ Hermione mused. Harry shrugged, not really caring much about the sacredness of magic. 

On their way towards the elevator a series of paintings followed. All previous Ministers. Most ignored the passers-by, but one seemed to be adamant to get Hermione and Harry’s attention. He all but jumped in his painting frame. 

‘’Golden Trio! Golden Trio, hello! I have questions! Golden Trio, this way, please!’’ 

Harry looked at Hermione and she gave a weak roll of her eyes to signify that they might as well hear this painting out. When they neared him, Hermione read the name under his painting and widened her eyes. The amicable man was the only ever muggleborn Minister for Magic: Nobby Leach. 

‘’Minister Leach,’’ Hermione whispered in awe, blinking away the general fatigue she felt nowadays. Harry, not yet caught up with his history, did not understand the magnitude of this man’s work. 

‘’You did not kill Tom, did you? There is so much scandalous gossip running amuck, a man cannot even get a hold of a single proper titbit of information. I ask you now, to hear it from the horse’s mouth: is he truly bound?’’ Minister Leach rubbed his hands anxiously and had a smile on his face that hurt how wide and painful it was. 

‘’He isn’t dead, sir.’’ Harry said, furrowing his brows and wondering why a Minister might want to know about him. Hermione looked to the nameplate and saw the time when he’d been in office 1962-1966, 1966-1698. He’d been killed by blood supremacists in 1968. The general belief was that this had been Lord Voldemort’s first move before revealing himself in 1970 alongside his Death Eaters and plunging this island into civil war. 

Nobby Leach nodded, very pleased to hear this. ‘’Good. Thank you, young man. But to bind someone – I hear rumours of the nature of said bond and they _revolt_ me. They _frighten_ me. There are legal matters, children, that need to be abided by.’’ His hands were held tight into fists and if he could, Nobby Leach would have lunged through the portrait to berate them in person. ‘’You have played soldiers and partisans, but now you must be lawyers and bureaucrats. Or, at least, if the world were right these roles would befall adults and not you.’’ Looking away, as if finding their presence irritating, but still with so much to say even after decades of his death. 

Hermione couldn’t move and neither could Harry. That cafe was the farthest thing on their mind at the moment. 

‘’It is inhumane to bind someone’s magic.’’

‘’Why are you defending him, sir?’’ Hermione found her voice. 

Nobby Leach looked at her and asked her for her family name. Hermione, peeved, answered: ‘’Granger.’’

‘’Like Dagworth-Granger?’’

Hermione balled her hands into fists then and through gritted teeth answered: ‘’No, like _Hermione_ Granger. I’m muggleborn like you.’’

There was a spark in his eyes at hearing this. ‘’Wonderful news! You have the Boy Who Didn’t Kill on your side. Politically interesting, yes, oh _very_ much. I saw the Weasley – always good to have an old, pureblooded family endorsing you. **_And_ **you’re said to be the Brightest Mind of Hogwarts. Run for Minister when you are old enough, please. I am lonely here. So terribly lonely. It is not fair, I think, to be the only mudblood Minister.’’ Hermione flinched at the slur and so did Harry, but Nobby Leach laughed it off. ‘’I see that Mudpride has fallen out of use. A shame, I think. I _was_ most proud of that organization. Girl, come here, step closer.’’

Hermione did, glancing at Harry briefly to relay to him how she was not happy with their decision to listen to this portrait. Harry waved at Hermione and wished her fun times.

Nobby Leach cracked his knuckles and whispered so only Hermione could hear: ‘’I have finally become old enough news to give this piece of advice: if the wizengamot proves uncooperative upon election time just imperius them.’’

Hermione, as if burned, jumped back. Harry immediately asked her what had happened, but she could not tell him. She looked at Nobby Leach, first and only muggleborn Minister for Magic, and asked him: ‘’So that’s how a muggleborn gets elected...’’

‘’Progress must be had at any cost.’’ Nobby Leach told her. He winked. ‘’It’s up to you to decide with whom you want to share your power.’’

Before Hermione could ask another question, or make an accusation, Harry pulled her away and said goodbye to the portraits. He didn’t ask what Nobby Leach had said to Hermione, but he did switch to a delightful topic. ‘’Teddy’s eyes are green whenever he sees me. It’s so cute.’’

‘’Oh,’’ Hermione whispered, halting her thoughts and redirecting them to Harry’s words. ‘’He’s already changing?’’

‘’Yeah, yeah. Andromeda’s taking good care of him, but you know I’m trying to be part of the kid’s life. He’s my godson.’’ Harry’s voice hitched and Hermione grabbed hold of his hand in comfort. He nodded, after composing himself, and she let go. They reached the elevator and when it opened wished that it got stuck. 

Rita Skeeter grinned like a shark. Her eyes devoured the sight of them together. It felt like 1994 all over again. Her quill danced with utmost glee. ‘’What is this, a Golden Duo emerges?’’ 

‘’What is this,’’ Hermiome mimicked the breathy, faux-surprised tone of voice, ‘’a beetle gets charged with its crimes?’’ 

The quill dropped into Rita’s hand and she pushed it into her robe’s pocket. The silence was awkward and tense and dense as they rode in the elevator. All three silent. All three having way too many thoughts to account for. 

On one floor the doors opened and man Hermione did not expect, hurried to get into the elevator. ‘’Harry, my boy, hello.’’ He shook hands with him. Then, he greeted Hermione, but it was obvious he did so out of courtesy and nothing else. 

Harry’s mouth nearly fell open. He elbowed Hermione. Bloody Hell! She elbowed him back. Message received. 

‘’Professor Slughorn,’’ cheerfully Rita Skeeter greeted, ‘’what an utter, indescribable joy to see you on British soil.’’ 

Slughorn seemed like an electrified cat: very anxious and incredibly disinterested in being in this situation. He forced himself to smile. ‘’Miss Skeeter, always a joy to have you around.’’ 

Right, Slughorn had taught Skeeter. She fell into that age-range. They chatted. Hermione and Harry eavesdropped. 

‘’What do you think of this situation?’’ 

‘’S-situation?’’ Slughorn eyed Harry and tried to say this next part diplomatically. ‘’Given the circumstances we find ourselves under, I think that it’s the best outcome.’’ 

Rita snickered. She pressed a hand to her mouth and laughed into it how a lady might find some remark false and worth mocking. Slughorn’s moustache was grey, and his hair was hidden underneath his wizard’s hat. The fear in his eyes was tenfold as strong while he waited for Rita’s reply. ‘’I find that the situation could have been resolved in a better way.’’ She locked eyes with Harry and relished in seeing his jaw tense. ‘’You-Know-Who could have died and all of those families I’ve interviewed,’’ Hermione inhaled and exhaled and counted and _tried_ not to speak up, ‘’would have found closure.’’ The shark of a journalist clicked her tongue and pouted even at Harry. ‘’Don’t you agree, Mr. Potter?’’

‘’I don’t think that it’s any of your business to know his thoughts on the subject.’’ Hermione came to Harry’s rescue, perhaps not having to, but she wanted to and that was what a friend did. ‘’You’ve interviewed us for the Prophet, you’ve had your share of fame. Now it’s time to retire the subject. It’s been a month. Move on!’’

‘’You think those families can just simply move on?’’ Skeeter’s mouth twisted into a horrified frown. ‘’I did not expect such callousness form the Golden Girl.’’ To Slughorn. ‘’Did you, sir?’’

Slughorn kept his mouth shut. He switched his attention from Harry, to Hermione, to Skeeter. He started to break into a sweat. Slowly, beads of sweat began to roll down his face. The close quarters of the elevator could not accommodate the abundance of history. He shifted his weight. 

‘’My boy,’’ the oldest and unfortunately most implicated member of the elevator spoke, ‘’I understand the situation if this is the only situation possible.’’ He met Harry’s green eyes and let him know that he spoke of the horcruxes keeping Tom Riddle alive. 

‘’No, er, we deliberated and found that this was the best course of action to take.’’

Slughorn’s face fell. He understood. The elevator doors opened and on his way out he turned to Harry, squeezed his shoulder, and said: ‘’Then, my boy, I do think you should have killed him.’’

Harry’s hands curled into tight, rigid fists. Rita noted this tension with glee. Hermione thought that the world was not nearly as grateful to the Order for the sacrifices they had all made in order to end this war. 

Perhaps a tad too abruptly, but Hermione had tired of toning herself down in front of the press: ‘’Rita, could you kill a person?’’

Rita’s eyes nearly popped out of her eye sockets. Hermione wished that that could happen, only so she could gnash them under her shoe in retaliation for every eye-sore of an article she’d written. 

‘’No.’’ Rita shook her head. ‘’I couldn’t.’’ The quill squirmed from out of her pocket and flew out. 

‘’Then keep your bloody mouth shut on matters you don’t know and can never know. If you know what’s good for you.’’ 

The elevator doors opened and it was Harry and Hermione’s stop. As the doors closed, Rita called out for Hermione: ‘’I’ll fix our little problem, Golden Girl. And when I do, none of your threats will be able to get me. When that moment comes - you’ll beg for my --’’

Harry had had enough. Against this better judgement (or perhaps in his best judgement) he fired off a silencing charm at Rita. The doors closed and she tumbled onward. 

‘’Never a dull moment with you lot.’’ Ron said. Harry snorted.

Hermione sighed. ‘’Do you get hounded by the press, Ron?’’

‘’Lots of times.’’ Ron said. ‘’I tell them to piss off.’’

‘’Yeah, we’re kind of, uh, too polite for that approach.’’ Harry lied, like a liar. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. ‘’Right, of course. Too polite. That’s _exactly_ what we are.’’

They looked around the cafe and saw that quite a number of Slytherins were there. Theodore Nott waved at them, but Daphne Greengrass hissed at him to lower his arm and avoid eye-contact. 

Ron waved at Nott. ‘’He’s the least slimy Slytherin of them all.’’

‘’What happened to Parkinson?’’ Harry asked, morbidly curious. That girl had been the only one brave enough to voice lots of people’s thoughts. _What are you waiting for? Someone grab him!_ _Let’s give him Potter._

‘’I don’t know.’’

‘’Not a clue. I know Davis is in New York. Ginny told me she saw this article in Witch Weekly; apparently she’s going to go to Salem’s Institute for her last year and specialize there.’’

‘’Oi, Nott!’’ Ron, ever a harbinger of chaos, decided to find out what happened to Parkinson.

Theodore Nott, yet again, waved. Unaccustomed to the full force of a Gryffindor’s attention. Daphne filled her palms with her head as she groaned. They joined them on what they belatedly realised was a date, but as they’d already sat down it would be too weird to stand back up and leave. 

‘’Thank you for your work.’’ Theodore Nott said. Daphne parroted him. She glared daggers at Hermione. And Hermione hadn’t enough sleep to unpack all of that and dissect its inference. So she glared back and startled Daphne into stopping. Ha. Victory. 

‘’Where is everyone?’’ Ron said. Theodore cautiously shifted in his seat. He didn’t know how much he was allowed to say. So he directed his attention back to Daphne, who started explaining. 

‘’Parkinson and Bulstrode are raising kittens together.’’ Another glare at Hermione. ‘’It put a wrench in their plans of going to Italy to unwind with me, so thanks Hermione.’’

_‘’Excuse me?’’_

‘’Never mind. You cannot be spoken to.’’ Daphne sighed dramatically.

‘’I have no idea what you’re talking about.’’

‘’Check your mail. Bulstrode has sent you a howler, I believe.’’

‘’All of my howlers get vanished upon entry.’’

‘’I’ll tell her to write you a normal letter then.’’

‘’Is this about her cat?’’ Hermione, Harry, and Ron remembered their second year at Hogwarts. 

‘’Yes.’’ Daphne nodded. 

‘’Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would anger her. It was an accident.’’

‘’That does not matter to _me._ Blaise is off being showered in riches by his elderly companions. He’s living it up, in summary. I think he’s in Spain?’’ Nott nodded. ‘’Right, yes. Spain. Lovely over there. Their political climate is stable.’’ Daphne whispered: ‘’I miss stability.’’

‘’You’re both going to be aurors, then?’’ Theodore asked. He was going to go into the healing programme after sitting his NEWTs in the summer. Hogwarts was not a kind place for him to return to anymore. 

‘’Kind of yeah. We’ll do the training, but we don’t know if we’ll stick with it.’’ Harry confessed. 

Daphne stifled a laugh. ‘’What will you do if you won’t be an auror – be independently wealthy and go yachting?’’ 

‘’Honestly I could use for a year of doing nothing.’’

‘’I’m probably going to help out with my brother’s joke shop.’’

‘’I liked Fred and George.’’ Theodore whispered. ‘’They really pulled the wool over Umbrdige’s eyes.’’

‘’Bloody cow of a woman.’’ 

‘’Crazy banshee.’’

‘’Bureaucrat.’’

‘’Monster.’’

‘’Fiend.’’

This continued. All five parties hated Umbridge with a burning passion. 

The waiter nearby finally approached them and Daphne ordered them all incredibly expensive shots of alcohol. It was daytime. The Gryffindors began to protest, but Daphne (dainty thing that she was) looked at them, took the shot, and drank it in one gulp, all whilst maintaining eye contact and making no hissing noises at the burn. ‘’Don’t be babies. We’re adults. Granger’s paying.’’

‘’ _I’m_ paying, excuse me?’’ Hermione did not like how Slytherins just left her without a comeback. 

‘’Well, yes. Your new job ought to cover hundreds of these shots.’’

‘’How do **you** know that?’’

‘’Yeah, she just got it.’’

‘’Blimey, it’s true what they say about Slytherins.’’

Daphne raised and lowered her brows, not revealing a single thing as to how she got her information. They cheered to _Peace_ and drank. War made day drinkers out of them. Peace made them continue. 

Somehow – and Hermione honestly had no bloody clue how she ever allowed this to happen to her – they decided to reconvene to Nott’s Manor and have a proper party there. It was a blur. Hermione just remembered making out with Ron. Compared to victory Quidditch parties she’d attended at Hogwarts – partying with wealthy, traumatized eighteen year olds was by far more intense. 

Daphne Greengrass slurred her introductions. She wore jewellery she’d unearthed from her grandmother’s wardrobe and danced on a table in high heels she’d spelled balanced with charms. Blaise had come back just for this occasion and was dancing with Ron. Ron kept looking back to Hermione to tell him if he was dreaming that the most handsome boy in their generation wanted to dance with _him?_ Hermione just gave him a thumbs up, equally in disbelief herself. 

Diverting her attention to a corner in the drawing/party/living room Hermione spelled to see if her drink may be drugged because she saw Pansy Parkinson talking to Harry. And neither looked murderous. They even looked amicable! 

A few drinks and a few more toasts to survival and prosperity later: 

Theodore Nott spelled the record player to play some muggle records that Hermione had in her extended satchel bag. She never left her house without it. 

It was a phenomenal experience teaching drunk purebloods the words to Queen’s Killer Queen. 

Especially when Ron began kissing her. Now that was a night to remember. She looped her hands around his neck and pulled him harder into the kiss. When she was in his embrace nothing could scare her. She felt so safe. So loved. So. Absolutely. Good. 

Until the moment she woke up, found herself surrounded by blankets, hung-over young adults, found her head being split open like a pomegranate, looked at her watch, and realised that she had very little time to get ready for her shift with Tom Marvolo Riddle. 

**_‘’Fuck.’’_ **


	4. Writing bores me so.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Tom meet. Caroline succeeds where Tom doesn't.

Tom Riddle was pulling an all-nighter. Not because it was something he wanted to do, but because Caroline was the only guard whose opinion he valued. When she conversed with him it wasn't with that all too familiar dose of fear most guards nestled between their teeth.

Caroline Yaxley spoke with a frankness that was fresh and relatively interesting. She brought him notebooks and he wrote in them because he was writing the next big hit in the romance genre.

''What do you know about love?'' She always asked amusing questions. Her back was to the door frame; one foot was resting on the other part of the archway. She'd crossed her arms not to glare, or appear disgruntled around him, but because being guarded like this was her modus operandi. It had to be for a Hit Wix. They were the MI6 of Magical Britain, weren't they?

''Have you ever worked with the MI6?'' Riddle inquired. He was tapping his pen against the blank page of the notebook. Perhaps a spy story might be interesting. In his youth he dabbled with poetry, but that was far too personal than novel writing ought to be. Especially something as hilarious as love.

Caroline levelled her gaze at him. She had distinct brown eyes. Intense. Eyes of a combatant and a killer. Riddle continued tapping, then he switched out to tap his name out in Morse code to quell boredom. Caroline averted her gaze from his crimson, monstrous eyes and looked at the tapping, heard it, understood it, and then snorted. ''I'm not telling you if I've ever worked with MI6.''

''If you told me you would have to kill me?'' Riddle joked. He put down the words: Chapter One.

''Yes.'' Caroline did not joke. Riddle crossed out the words and wrote instead: Prologue.

He caught Caroline grimacing at that. Self-consciously he scribbled that word out as well.

''Why don't you start in medias res?''

''And then backtrack?'' Riddle clutched at his robe in horror where his heart would be. ''That is far worse than writing a prologue. At least by labelling it at the beginning people know what they're getting into. Do they not? Is this not fairer?''

Caroline shrugged her shoulders. She moved from the door frame and sat down next to him on the living room couch. Then she took the notebook from him and flipped through the blank pages, staring at the lines with a familiar intensity. He could not remember where he had seen such brown eyes. The Hit Wix whispered, more for her own benefit: ''I get bored trying to get to the good stuff. Start where the good stuff begins and go off from there.''

''That is sound advice.'' Riddle gingerly took the notebook back. He began to tap the paper of the notebook once more. It was nearing dawn. Four am was a cursed time to think in. It was too early to awaken, and far too late to be awake in. Each tick from the clock mounted on the wall reverberated in the apartment as if someone was scraping concrete cinder blocks against hardwood.

''Are you excited for your prize?'' Caroline inquired. She placed her hands behind her head and leaned into it further, craning her neck as if baring it for a vampire. ''She is to arrive at six.''

''My prize?'' Riddle wrote the words: Protagonist picked up the phone.

Caroline scoffed.

''What?'' Riddle asked, not hiding that he was irked. He clenched his grip around the pen and threatened to pop the clicker off in sheer force. ''What is it now?''

''Starting with a phone call conversation? **_Really_**?''

Riddle shoved the notebook away from him, stood up, went to the bathroom, and locked himself in there.

Caroline apologized half-heartedly. She did not find this a matter worth apologising over. Yet she only needed to remember what it was like to grow up with an old father like Reginald Yaxely, who was a proud man, to remember that men who had been powerful, at least for a second, had fragile egos. Women, most likely, were addled with the same feeling, but Caroline had not met many powerful women who did not still have their power about them.

Curiously Caroline decided to pass her time and write a small vignette about a girl who'd been given a quest that would shatter the world. This pen business was much easier to write with than inkwells. Caroline swirled the letters into existence and continued to write until the page bled with her words as if being dealt a warren, mortal wound.

Riddle emerged from the bathroom after taking a shower – in an attempt to wake himself up – and found that Caroline had written an entire page and a half.

''Write what you know?'' Caroline offered as advice.

Riddle closed his eyes in order to hide the blatant pain flickering across his features. He whispered hoarsely, raspily – in order to contain a scream tearing his vocal cords to shreds. ''You may keep the notebook, Caroline. I would not dare split you from your creative endeavour.''

And then he went to his bedroom to sleep or brood. It was hard to tell.

Caroline bit her lip. She was better trained than this. But the laughter wanted to greet the world so badly and, for one moment only, Caroline allowed herself to laugh. Because this was not how she expected Riddle to be. Not at all. She'd expected charm, manipulation, unerring brutality – but never would she have expected humanity.

The girl continued on with her quest. She had to meet with a monster. Her friend had sent her there.

''A fairy?'' Caroline wondered aloud and decided to make the girl a little fairy who had to prove herself to the Unseelie Queen.

''Ooh this is fun.'' Caroline began to write more.

Riddle opened the door to watch her write. He was squinting at her. Caroline lifted her head from her third page. ''Would you like to proof read this?''

He closed the door.

Caroline laughed again.

This was very fun, indeed.

* * *

Hermione Granger saw a woman holding a notebook and proudly showing it to Tom Riddle. She was smiling widely, like a child that wanted to make her father feel bad about his skills.

‘’The Unseelie Queen has sent her off on a mission. I think she’s going to meet a couple of wacky characters and get into some hijinx.’’ The woman spoke. ‘’Does that sound interesting?’’

Tom Riddle’s lips twitched. ‘’Isn’t your shift over, Caroline? Best to get on with your life, now.’’

Caroline’s smile seemed to widen even more. She looked practically brimming with undying happiness. ‘’When I turn this into a successfully published novel, I shall dedicate it to you.’’

She turned away from him when she heard Hermione’s footsteps. Instantly her smile fell and she schooled the rest of her features to neutrality. She outstretched her hand to greet her. ‘’You must be Hermione Granger.’’

Hermione swallowed a ball of anxious, noxious bile that threatened to lodge itself in her throat. She may be forcing herself to call Tom Riddle how Kingsley ordered them, but the serpentine monster in front of her was, in every sense, Lord Voldemort.

His crimson, unfaltering gaze crossed with hers and he invited her inside: ‘’Do come in, newest jailer, I do not bite.’’

‘’Ahem.’’ Hermione shook hands with Caroline and introduced herself. She didn’t know how to talk to Tom Riddle. She would put if off until the last possible moment.

‘’Yes,’’ Caroline said, her voice was matter of fact and almost bored, ’’We’re all aware of the Golden Trio. Good work.’’

‘’Good work, indeed.’’ Voldemo – Riddle drawled and retreated back further into his abode, allowing Hermione space to go inside as well.

She did not follow the monster to its lair just yet. First she turned to her kindred spirit in jailing and asked if she needed to know something. ‘’Is there like a shift exchange? Any status reports I ought to know?’’

Caroline’s eyes sparked at such a flimsy, uncomfortable term. Hermione’s brain had yet to turn on after the massive party she’d lost all her marbles at. The older guard straightened up into a soldier’s salute and exclaimed the following in her best auror voice: ‘’Subject Riddle has prepared a meal from 1900 to 2200 and consumed it at 2200 to 2300 the previous day. For a man who has experienced combat he sure is a slow eater. Would not have made a good Hit Wix, this I can confirm to you, subordinate Granger.’’

Hermione was too busy staring at Caroline with her mouth half-open in aghast bewilderment to notice Riddle. He had returned to his side of the door frame to hear what Caroline had to say about their joint living arrangements.

‘’Subject Riddle has, as well, attempted to do leisure activity from 2300 to 0600 but has failed spectacularly.’’ Caroline turned to Riddle and dropped her army tone. ‘’Enjoy your morning.’’

And then, without waiting for Hermione to say anything, Caroline went down the stairs of the apartment building. Only after exiting it could she apparate away.

* * *

‘’Hermione Granger,’’ Tom Riddle’s voice dripped poison. He had her all to himself now. No Caroline Yaxley to amuse her and pat her condescendingly on the back in an attempt to comfort the young, green girl. ‘’It is a pleasure to _finally_ make your acquaintance.’’

She looked at him like a deer caught in front of headlights. Rightfully so, too. Riddle smiled that smile he’d perfected in the mirror as a boy; the kind that was once upon a time falsely reassuring, yet with this face made him look eerily monstrous.

‘’I cannot imagine that our saviour, the Boy Who Keeps Living, hasn’t tried to dissuade you from this endeavour, no?’’ Riddle continued. She was shorter than him. This body _was_ horrendously tall. Far taller than what malnourished orphan boy had been. Ah, the beauty of dark magic rituals. The face of his muggle ancestry was gone, but he was taller. The first couple of weeks had been horror to get used to. He’d actually once hit his head on a cabinet that he’d never in his lifetime been able to hit. Abraxas had laughed at him. What had happened after? Riddle couldn’t quite remember. It didn’t matter.

What _did_ matter was knocking this supposed genius down a couple of pegs. She had yet to reply to anything he’d said. It was unfortunate to know that his one chance at intelligent conversation would be cut short by a teenager. Riddle had nothing but contempt for teenagers.

Hermione Granger straightened up. She adjusted her robe and articulated in a clear and concise manner that was to be lauded. So many people stumbled over themselves. Riddle did not enjoy such people. A part of him was happy that Hermione Granger was not such a person. She glared at him. ‘’What Harry says or does not say is none of your business. You do not get to ask me about him nor will I remind you of his existence. I do _not_ care for anything you have to say about him or any of my friends.’’

Riddle looked down on her. She craned her head up and hissed, almost reminding him of Nagini with how venomously she carried herself. ‘’Now that that’s been settled, I’d say meeting you is a pleasure, but one of my DADA professors taught us not to tell lies. So,’’ Hermione _pushed_ past him. He staggered to the side, letting her inside. ‘’I suppose we’ll have to get this over with, won’t we? I propose we act as adults.’’

Tom Riddle closed the door and looked over his shoulder. Hermione Granger was now in the living room space and she still managed to ooze that unexpected confidence. It was a trifle unwanted, too, if Riddle would be honest with himself.

She’d bloody _elbowed_ him out of her way. These sorts of people couldn’t be reasoned with. Couldn’t be easily put down and swayed to dance the dances Tom Riddle felt like seeing. He lifted his robe sleeve and wondered if he’d bruise. She’d hit him pretty hard.

Institutional abuse, Tom Riddle had not missed thee.

* * *

Hermione was going to lose her mind. She’d bloody hit Lord Vo – Riddle. She still needed time to call him that. It was a different matter when she associated a name with a figment, but now that she was faced with the dark wizard it was a whole different world. She had to change topics fast or else she was going to overthink herself into her grave prematurely.

The apartment was a lot larger than she expected. While pacing about the living room she tried to calm her beating heart, the adrenaline which coursed through her in unfaltering speed, and the sense of dread that pooled in her abdomen whenever he looked at her for a moment too long. As if he was reading her mind. Hermione had been told he couldn’t use legilimency.

She continued listing rules that would be acceptable for both of them to abide by. Her hair was a mess of grease that she’d tied to the best of her ability.

He seemed to be listening, but she couldn’t be certain. He didn’t let anything out. No flicker of emotion like he had with Caroline. She’d offended him. Hermione fretted. Then she stopped doing such a preposterous thing. This was Tom Riddle. If he was offended by her she was doing a good job. He was, after all, nothing more than a failed, bigoted villain.

Hermione took a pause to catch her breath. He used to this opportunity to speak. ‘’Would you like breakfast?’’ Riddle inched towards the kitchen. Hermione blinked. Did he even have access to knives? Hermione’s hand flew to grab her wand. Perhaps he would take a knife and fight her.

He looked to the wand, looked back at her, and then scoffed: ‘’Child, you flatter me.’’

And then, as if Hermione wasn’t threatening him with spellfire, he ducked down into the kitchen and took out a mixing bowl from one of the cupboards. ‘’I want to make pancakes.’’

Hermione couldn’t believe that the man _was_ a pancake person. She and Ron owed Harry money.

He wasn’t wearing a black robe; like the ones they’d always seen him in. He wore teal. It went well with his complexion, actually. He must have caught her staring (but how, if he was so focused on the pancake batter) because he called to her: ‘’Lucius’ mother ordered me a couple when I returned to the land of the bipedal.’’

Not the land of the living. He’d been living with snakes while possessing them.

‘’I have one that’s neon green, too.’’ Riddle grimaced, but the smile he wore was oddly misplaced with the rest of his features, as if it was fond. ‘’It has a lot of bells and whistles attached to the sleeves.’’

‘’Why?'’ Hermione blurted out.

He chuckled. They avoided each other’s eye contact now. Hermione kept looking around for clues. There were a lot of notebooks scattered about.

‘’80s haute couture,’’ Riddle’s voice turned posh and outstandingly haughty, ‘’for the decade I missed.’’ He laughed. It was a deep, rich sound. ‘’I do enjoy jokes if they’re not too on the nose. As any sensible brit, I suppose. Have you seen an _American_ comedy?’’

Hermione nodded. She remembered he was focused on the task at hand and said that she had seen a couple. ‘’They’re quite common in the cinema these days.’’

‘ ** _’Awful_**.’’ He went on.

Hermione pulled up her satchel bag and dug about it. She was searching for a distraction. Possibly a book she could read while she tried not to talk cinema with Lord fucking – **_Riddle_**.

‘’How many pancakes do you eat?’’

Hermione’s stomach was stuffed with an ailment called post-drinking stuffiness, coupled with a hangover induced headache. ‘’One.’’

The look Riddle speared her with at that number could have been funny had it been anyone else. ‘’Who the **_fuck_** eats just one pancake?’’

Hermione, never to be one-upped or demeaned in any way, pointed proudly at herself and said: ‘’ _I_ do.’’

* * *

Tom Riddle truly regretted meeting Hermione Granger.


	5. This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione finds that Riddle isn't as easy to handle as she first thought.

Hermione Granger pursed her lips at the one, singular, and lonesome pancake on her plate. Riddle had four. Well, in Hermione's personal opinion when he had said pancake she'd expected them to be a lot thicker and pancake-y. The man had made crepes.

While making them, probably because she was young, he'd asked her if she'd like to flip one. Hermione had politely declined the offer. Her hand-eye coordination would come up short this morning out of nervous jitters and she would only be embarrassed further.

''Do you want something to drink?'' Riddle had opened one of the cabinets. He was peering in them intensely. Hoping that the drinks themselves might tell him their secrets.

''Have you got felix felicis in there?'' Hermione grabbed the plate he'd set on the table and lunged for the couch. She would not sit at the same, small table with Tom Riddle.

''No.'' Riddle said with all seriousness. ''No amortentia either if your thoughts happen to wander down that path.''

Hermione choked on her first bite of the crepe. She coughed. It was lodged in her throat. Her eyes began to water. This day was shite. Hermione shrugged off her satchel bag, feeling light headed. She must have been making a lot of noise because Riddle asked her if she needed help.

''Do you want me to Heimlich you?'' It was the concern in his tone, the genuine emotion, that had Hermione choke harder. She would rather die than have him help her with anything. Thankfully, it took her only two more scraping coughs to get this under control.

''Like a cat in February.'' Riddle commented under his breath.

''Excuse me?'' Hermione demanded.

''That's how a choking person sounds like.'' Then he looked upward, as if in deep thought. ''Is that a good description of an annoying person, I wonder? He sounded like a cat February, but without the benefits?''

''You write?'' Hermione didn’t know how to feel about this.

''Rarely. Apparently I have a brain parasite that disallows me from actually writing fiction. All of my attempted works sound like they're doctoral dissertations.''

''Academia.'' Hermione nodded her head. ''The worst brain parasite of all.''

The man of the hour snorted instead of laughing, again. It seemed that it was funny, but wasn't too funny. Hermione rummaged through her satchel bag and fished out a water bottle to drink. He spotted that and asked her if she had extended it.

''Of course.''

''How deep does it go?''

''None of your business.''

''Does the Minister know you've done something illegal?'' Riddle sat the dinner table and rolled up the crepes to eat. But before he did so he put an ungodly amount of nutella on it. Hermione had grown up with dentists who had taught her that sweets were the devil. This was too much for her sensibilities.

Hermione looked at her half-eaten crepe and said that his cooking wasn't that good.

This didn't offend him. ''I am out of practise. That's what happens when you're treated like royalty for a good part of your life.'' He gave a cheeky grin. Hermione grimaced.

''You know you _aren't_ a lord, right?''

He nodded, but he had his mouth full so he didn't answer her until he swallowed the chunk of food. It trailed down his throat, causing his Adam's apple to bob. Hermione waited for him. She placed her plate on the coffee table. It had many papers over it. No parchment rolls, for a change. She picked up a couple randomly and read off of them.

Her eyes widened, a blush crept over her face, and she put them down with a lot more speed than she'd wanted to.

''Of course, I'm not a **real** lord. It's a bloody _anagram_ of my name. Purebloods are sheep that follow powerful sounding names, rather than powerful people. It was all part of an image.'' He asked her if she was going to finish her pancake.

Hermione couldn't help it. She broke it to him: ''These are _crepes_. They aren't pancakes.'' She would not lie. His casual admission to this had gotten underneath her skin.

''How can you be so uneducated?'' He parried. ''These are real pancakes.'' Next he stood up, went over to the living room area, bent down, and nonchalantly stole her plate.

''I wasn't done with that.'' Hermione was, but she wanted to needle him. It felt like waking a sleeping dragon.

''You are now.'' Except this dragon could not care less. He folded the crepe further and simply ate it in one clean and swift movement. It was like watching a snake detach its jaw. Could he do that? Hermione wondered.

''I most certainly _cannot_ do that.'' Amusement seeped from his tone.

Hermione blinked. Asked herself if she'd actually asked that aloud, realised she hadn't, and then shouted: ''You **_are_** reading my mind!''

Again, the man just nodded. ''As you can see I am not allowed many books. And you have forgotten to bring me the morning newspaper. This all teaches me to take my entertainment where I can.''

''I thought you couldn't use magic.'' Hermione crossed her arms. Her heart was beating, yet again, in a very unhealthy rhythm.

''I do not have to. You are broadcasting like a radio host.'' He ran his tongue over his teeth. ''It is a novelty, I will admit. None of the guards I have had so far are as loud as you. I attribute this to your age. Though, why a girl in war would not bother to learn occlumency makes me ask how it is you have won and I have not.''

There was an undercurrent of bitterness that morphed his words from playful to condescending. Hermione would not allow this. Yet her mind blanked and she could not think of a retort. So she changed the topic: ''Why did you ask for me?''

''Brightest Mind of Hogwarts, can you not even deduce so little?'' His tone was rising. It was not amused, nor feeling like humouring Hermione. No, it was _jagged_ now.

Hermione's headache slammed into her from each side and crawled from the back of her brain like a clawed animal. ''Jealous, are you, _Riddle_?''

''Of a child who cannot even learn occlumency? I think not.''

Hermione took her wand out and held it, not aiming it at him. But knowing she was armed was enough to dissipate some of that fear. Some of that panic that stretched inside of her and pierced her heart.

''Hold it if it makes you feel better. Just don't be daft enough to shoot at me when I've done nothing to you. Sticks and stones, and all that?'' His voice fluctuated. That wasn't something Hermione had expected. Harry had always told her how quietly he spoke, how slowly; as if he had to make sure he picked the right words when speaking and the right intonation. Here, when no one of worth was listening to him, he spoke fluidly. He dug into his roots, having nothing better to do than remember and accept bits and pieces of himself he'd buried in the past.

''Done _nothing_ to me?'' Hermione's grip tightened on her wand. She'd had to get a new one. This one was fir wood. Ollivander had called it the wand of survivors. Hermione was supposed to be reminded that she'd survived war, and that she'd come out a stronger person. Yet that was not at all how she felt. Loud noises startled her (she had not been able to go to London since May because there were too many people mingling about and it would have been easy to get attacked from a crowd). Closed spaces startled her (she had to keep a tally of all available exits, and she'd even made a count of how many doors and windows this apartment had, how far up it was in case of necessary manoeuvring, etc.). Her mind startled her (the only time she'd properly slept was after she'd put too much alcohol in her person in order to stifle the thoughts and her own screams and Be – Lestran – _that_ woman's giddy, delighted guffawing).

She was broken and had only one person to thank for such an existence. And he had the nerve, the gall, the irreverent arrogance to say he'd done _nothing_ to her.

''You are despicable.'' Hermione spat. Her eyes were not red, but she hoped they were scorching. She wanted them to **_burn_**.

He looked not the least bit phased.

It only riled her further. She was smart enough to know when to remove herself. The war was over. He'd lost. This was the most he could do now.

Hermione shuddered at all of the words she wanted to say to him, but ultimately decided silence would hurt him far more. It would be the less interesting route to take. And what was Riddle now, except starved of interesting things?

She didn't flee, per se, but she did abscond for the bathroom in a hurry. In one of her not-so-best moments, she slammed the door shut after her and turned the tap water to splash water on her face. Her hands were shaking. She still kept her wand in her hand. Some called their wands an extension of their body, but Hermione saw it as a crutch, as a safety net to always fall back on.

Perhaps one night could pass in the future without her sleeping with it? Hermione closed her eyes and drowned herself in the noise of running tap water. She was rattled. This would calm her. It wasn't her water bill to pay. She collapsed on her elbows, propping herself barely upward with them on the sink.

Her eyes opened. Hermione stared back at her from the mirror. She wondered if ever, at the quietest of times, people thought that their reflections were more people than they themselves were?

Hermione forced herself to straighten up into a proud, powerful position. A survivor should not act like this, should she?

However, none of these thoughts could prepare Hermione for the panic attack that resulted when she looked at her reflection's shoulders and noted there was no familiar clasp of her extended satchel bag.

She burst through the door, into the small hallway, and couldn't see Tom Riddle in either the living room or the kitchen. Her skin prickled with guilt and paranoid horror. Before going anywhere further, Hermione turned to the room opposite of the bathroom and pushed it open. It was an empty bedroom with a double bed and a romance novel on one of the pillows.

Hermione would have given this sight more thought, were she not busy trying to actually locate Tom Riddle.

She ran into the living space now and looked to the place where she'd sat. The satchel must have chafed her neck; it'd been doing that recently – as if it was becoming difficult to carry around so much with her still – even after the world had told her it was all right to let go of things. While choking she had to have shoved it off of herself. Hermione ran a hand through her hair and screamed. It was one tinged with hysteria.

It was her first day and she'd already lost Tom Riddle.

Harry would laugh his arse off. She could picture him now, telling her that this had to be a brand new record for a catastrophy that had happened in Hermione’s life. And, then he’d add, very proudly, it wasn’t even his fault for this one! It was all Hermione Granger’s doing!

Hermione was losing her mind. She pushed herself to scour every damned nook in this entire apartment, in search of her satchel bag. It had come up short. She couldn’t breathe. None of this boded well for her. If she called Kingsley now he would decide that she wasn’t ready for such a position and he would pull her out. Hermione hadn’t even asked Riddle about mind magic yet! This couldn’t happen so soon. How could she let this happen?!

Lord fucking Voldemort was touching **_her_** things. Probably flipping through her books. Maybe even lounging on her couches and in her tents. Hermione had decorated the place. It wasn't just a storage unit. She made it into a bunker of sorts.

A bunker that she couldn't _bloody_ **_find_**. She pulled apart the cushions on the couch and tried to rummage about some more. For her own health's benefit – she screamed again.

**Author's Note:**

> I moved countries so I honestly don't know when I will update


End file.
